


The Stories We Tell

by Luthien17



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Action/Adventure, But with a bigger main story, Collection of Shorter Stories, Hurt/Comfort, Post-Series, Violence, War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-08
Updated: 2018-07-03
Packaged: 2019-05-19 17:21:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 15
Words: 83,276
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14878082
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Luthien17/pseuds/Luthien17
Summary: Their story is one to be told for many generations to come. It's a tale of friendship, brotherhood and adventure, a story of heartbreak, duty and sacrifice. Many years after the four musketeers parted ways, danger strikes for France again. Will they reunite and stand side by side, to prevent France's downfall once again?2: Athos runs in an old enemy from his past3: Porthos and Brujon encounter some trouble at the front4: The return of old foes causes chaos when d'Artagnan and Aramis try to rebuild the garrison5: A rebellion on the countryside leads to the four musketeers questioning their duty.6: Athos and Sylvie return to Paris where d'Artagnan needs their help7: The musketeers are retrieving gold for the King, when mysterious strangers attack them and claim the gold belongs to them8: The musketeers have to rescue people out of a burning house9: Between S2 and S3. D'Artagnan faces a hard fight on the battlefield10: General Porthos makes a choice to save his men11: D'Artagnan had never expected this day to turn out like this12-15: The musketeers reunite in 1656 and have to fight for France, together again





	1. In the Beginning

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome to another project of mine, first published on ff.net (so users there might know this already) and now on here too. 
> 
> The main story takes place 20 years post-series. Chapters 2 until 11 are short stories, with various different settings. Some are post-series, some are just some simple adventure stories. This first one is just a very short one (and one you already know), to show you what I mean. I'll give a short chapter summary in front of each chapter, so hopefully, this helps. If you are only interested in the main-story, it continues at the end of chapter 11.
> 
> As usual, only second-language english. Thanks for reading and I hope you enjoy.

_Brothers, what we do in life echoes in eternity.  
-Ridley Scott’s Gladiator_

**Paris, September 1656**

The red evening sun plunged the dirty and busy streets of Paris in her gentle light, though dark, rainy clouds were about to replace her. The pattering of rain nearly drowned out the last, loud held conversations on the streets and washed away the muck and dirt from the day. The citizens of Paris were on their ways home, waiting for a hot meal and a comfortable bed. 

In the middle of it, a tall man blazed his trail through the crowd. He wore a dark, leathern uniform, a silvery looking royal fleur-de-lis carved on the shoulder plate. The rain pelted on his hat, that covered his wet, short-cut hair and the drops gathered in his attentively trimmed beard. 

The man came to a stop in front of a tavern, casted one last glance out on the street before he opened the door. Warm air poured out of the room and the smell of wine and bread greeted him. 

With a smile, he steered towards a large table, where a few men in uniform were seated, chatting lively and each of them with a glass of wine in front of them. When they spotted him, they bawled.

“Finally. About time you arrive, man!” one of the soldiers yelled and slammed his cup on the table. 

The man raised a hand before he sat down on the last free chair. 

“Sorry. The Captain kept me busy today.”

Another one snorted. “Well, he is nervous.”

The man chuckled and took off his hat. 

“He’s not nervous, Gaulier. He is just a little excited.”

The first soldier grunted. “He is excited? He knows them. But we? They’ve only been stories we were told for as long as we are in the regiment. They are heroes.”

The man ordered a wine and lowered his gaze. 

“They certainly are. But you’ve seen them sometimes. Don’t get me wrong, it’s an honor to serve under our Captain, but I wish I’d known the three of them longer.”

“But you know the stories, don’t you?” That was the voice of a little boy, Gaulier’s son Verde, who sat on his father’s lap. Though it was morally questionable to bring a child into a tavern with a lot of drunken men, this one had enough musketeers to protect him. And he loved to hear the adventure-stories from his father or his friends, but this evening, everybody was looking forward to the arrival of three very special guests. 

Captain d’Artagnan was more than excited, though he tried to hide it by keeping them all busy the entire day, sometimes with totally useless tasks, just so they wouldn’t see him. But there was something he was keeping from his soldiers, and he thought they didn’t realize it. He was a little distanced lately, careful, and he refused to tell them why. 

“Yes, Verde, I know the stories. Everyone in the regiment knows them.”

“Not the way you do,” Gaulier interjected. 

The man raised his cup of wine before taking a deep sip.

“Fair point.”

“How did Captain d’Artagnan meet them?” Verde asked innocently. 

His father couldn’t hide an amused chuckle. “I told you the story many times, son. You know the story.”

Verde nodded eagerly. 

The man leaned on the desk on both forearms and offered the child a teasing smile. 

“Why don’t you tell me, Verde? I’d love to hear the story from you. Because I think your father told you the wrong one.” 

Gaulier shot him a piercing look, but didn’t say anything. Verde on the other hand looked shocked. 

“What do you mean? Father told me how Captain d’Artagnan came to Paris, and he ran into Athos, Aramis and Porthos all in one day.”

The man chuckled in amusement. “Well, so far so good. And then?”

“He challenged all three of them for a duel. Athos at 12 o’clock, Porthos at 1 o’clock and Aramis at 2 o’clock. When he arrived to duel Athos, he learnt that Athos’ seconds were Porthos and Aramis, and when the red guard attacked, they united to fight them!”

The man broke out into a soft laughter, but stopped as soon as he realized that he was the only one. His friends seated at the table all looked at him in confusion, apparently, that’s the story they knew too. 

Gaulier raised his cup and took a deep sip of wine. “That’s not the real story, I suppose?” he asked dryly once the man had calmed down again. The addressed musketeer shook his head and leaned back, arms folded in front of his chest. 

“No. Let’s just say, as much as the Captain would give his life for Athos these days, it started out a little different.”

“Meaning?”

The man grimaced.

“Well, the Captain blamed Athos for the death of his father. He came to Paris in order to kill him.”

“You’re kidding, right?” Gaulier breathed.

The man shook his head. 

“I swear.”

-MMMM-

**Paris, 1630**

“I’m looking for Athos!”

The voice echoed through the courtyard and the three musketeers near the stairs were interrupted in their conversation. Athos turned around, reacting casually to the request.

“You found him,” he answered calmly, his usual, indifferent expression shadowed by curiosity. 

D’Artagnan raised his pistol and aimed at Athos, his face a mask of hate.

“My name is d’Artagnan of Lupiac in Gascony.” He made a short pause and lowered his gun. “Prepare to fight, one of us dies here.”

“Now, that’s the way to make an entrance,” Aramis commented from his place on the stairs as Athos pulled out his sword with a mixture of interest and annoyance.

“Can I ask why?” he asked in a tone that told everyone he was very sure that there was only one way this duel could end. It was no secret he was the best swordsman in the garrison. A farmboy from Gascony couldn’t be a challenge.

“You murdered my father,” d’Artagnan replied. 

Athos furrowed his brow slightly. 

“You’re mistaken. I’m not the man you’re looking for,” he said, hoping to avoid an unnecessary death. 

But the young Gascony boy couldn’t be lectured, apparently.

“Murderer!” he yelled as he ran towards Athos, his rapier ready to attack. He landed multiple sword-strikes, forcing Athos into defensive mode. 

They circled each other, d’Artagnan pointing at Athos with the tip of his sword.

“Do you deny you shot Alexandre d’Artagnan two days ago in cold blood?” d’Artagnan growled, swinging his sword to the side.

“I usually remember the men I kill, that name means nothing to me,” Athos explained warningly, keeping the attacker away with a raised rapier.

“Then you’re a liar as well!” d’Artagnan declared and lashed out with his sword again. Both men pulled out a main gauche, focused on their duel.  
Porthos and Aramis watched from the sideline, a little confused but interested.

Athos and d’Artagnan kept on launching attacks at one another, both parrying the opponent’s blows, but none able to truly gain the upper hand. 

“Remarkable,” Aramis murmured to Porthos. “He’s keeping up with Athos.”

“Rubbish,” Porthos countered, clearly enjoying the entertainment in front of his eyes. “He just doesn’t want to hurt the lunatic.”

Aramis grinned and returned his gaze to the fight. A short while after, Athos was able to defeat d’Artagnan, pushed him against one of the wooden pillars and plunged his dagger into the wood next to the young man’s head. 

“That’s enough!” he bellowed, before he stood up face to face with his opponent. “That could’ve been your throat. Don’t make me kill you over a mistake.”  
He let go of the man and turned his back on him, clearly upset now. 

“I didn’t kill your father, and I don’t want to kill you.”

D’Artagnan scowled, pulled out the dagger and threw it. 

“Athos!” 

The warning echoed through the courtyard and Athos turned around last second to avoid the blade being thrown at him. The weapon sank into the wood a few inches next to Aramis’ hand, who looked up, a little offended. 

D’Artagnan gathered his weapon and held it out. 

“And that could’ve been your back. Now fight me or die on your knees.” He took a deep breath. “I don’t care which.”

Athos just tilted his head slightly, not quite sure what to say. He had enough, he didn’t want to fight the kid. 

“No?” d’Artagnan asked in is rage and charged towards Athos, his sword ready to pierce the musketeer, when his blade was blocked by another one. Aramis had shielded Athos from the younger’s attack. 

“He said enough,” Aramis explained politely.

“Very well,” d’Artagnan said. “I’ll fight both of you.”

-MMMM-

**Paris, 1656**

“Well, that’s what’s always been told,” Verde explained expertly, “Challenge one, fight three.”

The man smiled broadly. “That’s kinda the essence of the musketeers, but I’m sure you know that, little one, am I right?”

Verde nodded enthusiastically. 

“How did it end?” his father asked, curiosity glistening in his eyes. 

The musketeer refilled his cup of wine. “Well, our Captain fought all three of them, but was defeated in the end. Constance interrupted the whole scenario before anything else happened one might’ve regretted later.”

“Oh,” Gaulier said in surprise and an amused smile flashed over his face. “So not only did he try to kill Athos, but he was saved by the interference of Constance back then already? Oh, I’m gonna love teasing him with that.”

The man chuckled wryly. 

“I’d advise you to do that when he’s in a good mood.”

Gaulier saluted sarcastically and another man, they all called him Rissé, murmured something that sounded like “every man needs a woman like Constance in his life”. 

The man snorted. 

“Oh come on, Rissé. Everybody knows you are scared of the Captain’s wife.”

Rissé scowled. 

“Yes, because I am a lot smarter than all of you idiots. Mark my words, there will come a time when all of you think of me while you are caressing your red cheeks after she slapped each and every one of you for your stupidity”

Gaulier raised a placating hand. 

“Yeah, sure. She likes me, I don’t think she’ll ever do that to me.”

The man couldn’t help but laugh.

“Oh, she liked Aramis too. Would you like to ask him the number of times he experienced her wrath first hand? ‘cause I think he keeps a list.”

Now it was Gaulier’s turn to join in the cheerful laughter and even Verde smiled a little. 

“You really know the stories in detail!” he said and looked admiringly at the man. He tilted his head. 

“I do.”

“Can you tell some more? I know so little about them!”

Gaulier shushed his son and cast a shy glance at the man. 

“He is very excited for their visit. And you are the only one who knows some stories first hand, and some stories directly from their mouths, Brujon.”

The man, Brujon, nodded and returned his attention to the child.

“Which one would you like to hear?”


	2. The Art of Justice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Athos, Porthos and Aramis return home from a mission, they run into someone from Athos' past, who wants to get his revenge on the musketeer for something that had happened during a time Athos has left behind.

__

_For vengeance is an emptiness, and he who seeketh it, wasteth himself - Jeffrey Farnol_

**The tavern ‘Le bouclier rouillé’, Paris, 1656**

„Which one would you like to hear?“ Brujon asked and lifted his head to look at Verde. The boy looked up to his father, obviously very nervous. His eyes were begging his father for something Brujon could not understand. 

“Am I missing something?” Brujon queried and pointed at Gaulier and his son. The younger musketeer just shook his head and sighed at the sight of his pleading son.

“I’ve told him a lot. But there is one story he’s been begging to learn about for weeks now. I told you I can’t, Verde.” He looked at his son with a stern expression on his face. 

“Which one is it?” Brujon wanted to know, his voice curious. 

Verde looked up to him shyly.

“Father said something about the three of them keeping their pasts very much to themselves. I wondered if … maybe you would…you know…”

“Oh, I do know,” Brujon answered kindly. “And trust me when I say they had their reasons not to talk about it too much.”

Rissé sipped at his drink. “From what I heard, they all had their fair share of demons haunting them from their different pasts.” 

Brujon raised an eyebrow. “Indeed they did. But they had to face these demons every now and again.” He noticed Verde looking at him expectantly.

“And this time, they faced it together.”

-MMMM-

**On the road to Paris, 1632**

“I’m telling you, it would be a win for everybody!” Aramis declared.

Porthos snorted. “You would be the only one benefitting from it.” 

Aramis rolled his eyes and arched an eyebrow. “Really? ‘cause I think we all would like Athos better if he’d just leave it to me.”

Athos, riding in the front, growled indignantly. “For the last time, Aramis, I’m not giving you my wine.”

“Again,” Aramis tried and brought his horse up to Athos’. “We all prefer you sober and I am in desperate need of it.”

“How can alcohol ease the pain in your shoulder?” Porthos wanted to know and appeared on Athos’ other side. 

Athos just groaned. They’ve been having the discussion for at least ten minutes now, but he was not ready yet to give in. Aramis was granting Porthos a piercing look, apparently a little disappointed Porthos’ didn’t have his back on this one.

“I see nothing else here that could help with it. Besides, Athos, you owe it to me!”

Now it was Athos’ turn to be offended. “I owe it to you?” he repeated, dangerously slow.

Aramis nodded his head vigorously. “You do. Could we stop fighting now and could you please just give me what’s left of your wine.”

Athos tightened his grip on the reins and tilted his head to the side to glare at Aramis. 

“It’s not my fault you fell off your horse,” Athos commented dryly and steered his gaze back on the road. He could hear Aramis drawing in a deep breath to protest   
next to him. 

It was Porthos who jumped in with an explanation first.“Well, to be fair, Athos, it was your pistol shot that spooked Aramis’ horse.”

Athos could feel the look of Porthos’ warm and calm eyes on him. 

“I was trying to get your attention,” Athos shot back and turned towards Aramis again. 

Aramis grasped his reins with only one hand and massaged his shoulder with the other one. “Well, you succeeded. Next time, perhaps calling my name would suffice, my dear friend.”

Athos shrugged and sighed heavily, before he reached into his saddlebags with his right hand and tossed his bottle of wine over to Aramis, who caught it with ease. 

“As if that ever worked out. Here, you go, you idiot. But if you fall off your horse because you drank too much, I’m going to leave you there in the dust and you can walk back to Paris.”

Aramis rolled his eyes and shook the bottle to check how much was left of the liquid. “It’s not like you left enough in there that a man could actually become drunk,” he said and ducked his head in order to escape Athos’ gaze of hate. 

“Maybe I should just whack you over the head with the bottle next time,” Athos murmured under his breath but he received nothing but laughter from his two friends. 

“Make sure d’Artagnan is there then,” Porthos interjected with a smug grin on his face. “So that the whelp finally has something to annoy Aramis with.”

“The entertainment of our youngest member is not exactly my priority,” Athos responded grumpily and tried to urge his horse to a faster pace in order to escape the conversation.

“Oh, I envy him,” Porthos said dreamingly. “The pup gets to breathe the Paris-air and he gets to drink the good wine of Parisian taverns, while I am stuck here in the middle of nowhere with the two of you.”

Aramis snorted doubtfully and emptied Athos’ bottle of wine. “I don’t know if that’s something you should be jealous of. The poor lad was knocked out in an attempt to catch a thief who stole some livres from Madame Bonacieux and is now put on stable duty by Tréville.”

“Yes,” Porthos retorted. “But in Paris.”

“An unfortunate accident,” Athos threw in from the front. “I’m sure he’ll be with us on our next mission. Hopefully, because just the two of you is getting really hard to endure.”

“Oh just admit it, Athos,” Porthos said and Athos could almost hear him smiling triumphantly. “It would get boring without us.” 

“Imagine the silence…,” Aramis added, but he sounded as if his mind was somewhere else. 

A warning sign for Athos, no matter how annoying his friends were occasionally. The swordsman turned around to look Aramis, who was staring at his horses’ neck, but he looked exerted, his brow furrowed. 

“What is it?” Athos asked matter-of-factly, their bantering from earlier forgotten at an instant. 

Aramis just raised his hand to signal him to stop talking. Athos complied, listening closely in the hope that he would catch whatever distracted Aramis at the moment. His hearing wasn’t as sharp as Aramis’, but he was also aware of the sounds that worried his friend.

Athos watched Aramis’ face, and slight panic got a hold of him when his friend’s eyes shot up suddenly and alarm reflected in his dark eyes. 

“Move!” he yelled and grasped his reins to urge his horse into a gallop, but the clang of metal and the movement of guns being drawn told them they were already too late. 

Four riders appeared, two in front of them on the road and one from each side. 

“Don’t!” one of them snarled at Porthos whose hand darted towards his pistol. The tall musketeer froze in the motion, before he raised his hand in defense.   
Judging from the noises to his right, Athos guessed Aramis had done something similar. He looked to the side just in time to see that Aramis was about to fire, but the pistol was torn out of his hands before he was able to use it. The attacker wrenched the weapon out of Aramis’ hands and used it to knock him out of the saddle.   
Aramis landed on the ground with a soft thud, and he immediately tried to get back on his feet. 

“Not again,” he groaned as his right hand clutched his bruised shoulder. Before he was able to do anything, the attacker held a gun to his head.

“Don’t move.”

Aramis looked annoyed, but he eventually raised his hands in defeat. 

Athos, who had two guns leveled at him, stared at the newcomers with an ice cold glare. 

“Good evening, gentlemen,” one of them, a short man with long, curly hair greeted them. “We’re very sorry to disturb you.”

“I somehow doubt that,” Porthos murmured. 

The man shot the musketeer a pointing look, but didn’t comment. 

“Just state your business,” Athos growled menacingly, staring angrily at the man who spoke. 

“What is it, huh?” Porthos asked. “We’re currently not carrying anything valuable. If that’s what you hope to gain here, you should’ve ambushed us two days ago.”

“Oh, but it’s not gold we’re after,” the man in question explained with a disgustingly soothing tone in his voice. His gaze found Athos. “Comte de la Fère. Long time no see.”

“Oh great, who did you piss off this time, Athos?” Aramis threw in unnecessarily. Athos ignored him. 

“I’d say it’s a pleasure, but I’m in quite a hurry to get back to my duty at the moment.”

The man managed a crooked grin. “Then I fear it has to wait. Jean sends me.”

Athos maintained an indifferent expression. “Who?” 

The stranger broke out into a bellowing laugh, a creepy and rattling sound. “Wow, you don’t even remember him? He’s going to be furious.”

To his left, Athos heard Porthos chuckle dryly. “Yeah, it’s not like one in three persons is named Jean in this country.”

The attacker’s laughter broke off, but he didn’t bestow as much as a glance at the tall musketeer. 

“Jean Duveau. Does the family name ring a bell?” 

_Duveau._ Athos remembered that name. And the memory of it made his heart drop, as he knew exactly what was going to happen next. His face seemed to have betrayed him, because the leader now grinned contently. 

“Ah, that’s what I thought. So,” his horse made a step forward and he gave a signal to his two men who were holding Porthos and Aramis at gunpoint. “I apologize for dragging you musketeers into this personal affair. I have a huge amount of respect for your work, but I fear you two are risks I cannot afford to take.” He waved with his pistol into Porthos’ direction. 

“Get off your horse, Goliath,” he ordered and received a sour glare from Porthos, who hesitantly did as he was told. 

Fear crept over Athos’ skin. He had a vivid idea of what Duveau’s men were going to do with him, but what were they going to do with his comrades? 

Porthos dismounted slowly, and was forced to hand over his pistol. 

“Leave them out of this, you bastards,” Athos ordered as loudly as his voice could manage. Their leader just rolled his eyes. 

“Easy, Comte, no need to be rude. We’re not as cruel as you were.”

Anger welled up in Athos, but he managed to hide it behind a mask of indifference. 

“What’s he talking about, Athos?” Porthos asked, with actual worry in his voice. 

But Athos didn’t answer. He just kept throwing daggers at the leader with the power of a single look. 

“Now,” the man began and gave his two fellows a signal. 

Accompanied by Aramis’ loud protest and an infuriated yell from Porthos, the men hit the two riderless horses with their rapiers hard against the legs.   
The animals nickered loudly before they jumped up in the air and took off down the road, the sound of their hooves fading the more distance they brought between themselves and their owners. 

“That’s your master plan?” Aramis, who now looked at the leader with a mixture of impatience and annoyance, asked. “Make us walk to kill you?”

Athos prayed that Aramis would just shut up. But apparently, that was too much to ask. 

“You see,” Aramis explained. “I’m a fast runner. And my friend here,” and he motioned towards Porthos, “had the physical endurance of a bull.”

The leader just shrugged Aramis’ words off. “I have no quarrel with the two of you,” the man now said. “Go your ways; resume your duties in Paris. But Comte de la Fère is coming with us.” 

“May I ask why?” Athos asked as diplomatic as possible, but barely received their attention.

“You are charged with betrayal. You are charged with murder. Duveau will make you answer for your crimes.”

Athos, who knew exactly what all of this was about, hinted a grin. 

“I fear his hunger for revenge has clouded his judgment,” Athos explained calmly. 

“How about you shut up until we arrive at Duveau’s?”

One of the men brought his horse up next to Athos and relieved him of his weapons, keeping the pistol close to his head. He then tied the reins to the saddle of the man they were holding the conversation with.

“I’d advise you not to follow us,” the leader now spoke and pushed his horse into motion, bringing Athos’ horse along with it. “Or I’ll plant a bullet in your friend’s head.” 

“Oh, no need to make empty threats, do we?” Athos commented sourly as his horse was brought along with his captors. 

As he passed Aramis, their gazes met. Athos was the only one who was able to see the icy determination and resolution in Aramis’ eyes, as they were covered by indifference and hate as a trick to cover his concern.

“We’ll get you for this.” Athos closed his eyes as he heard Porthos’ voice behind him, it was low but the words were clearly understood. He sighed. Porthos didn’t know that this was the one step that was too far. 

The leader stopped again, casting a glance back and noticing the way Porthos and Aramis were both looking at Athos. He grimaced. 

“I really wanted to let you two go. You have done nothing wrong.”

“Not yet,” Aramis growled and Athos wanted to smack his head for his devotion. Honorable, but it could cost him his life. 

“I’m a trustworthy man, but you two apparently aren’t,” the leader declared and shook his head in dismay. “When you go to Paris to get reinforcements….no…that’s a risk I can’t take.”

It sounded as if he was speaking more to himself than to anyone else. 

He returned his attention to Athos and the way they were about to go. 

“Renard, Pichet!” he called over his shoulder and two men who aimed their weapons at Aramis and Porthos reacted by looking up to their leader.   
The man grinned before he urged his horse into a fast trot. 

“Kill them.”

Athos’ fear was no longer concealed. He flinched in his saddle and was about to just jump off the horse and take his chances, when he felt the cold metal of the barrel pressed against his temple as another henchman approached from behind. 

“Don’t think I wouldn’t,” he snarled into Athos’ ear. “It would mean one less murderer in this world.”

Athos’ features were hard like stone. 

“You just created two more.”

Suddenly, all he could see was the angry face of the attacker, a sharp sound of metal hitting bones, and then he felt the cold ground before everything turned black. 

He was unconscious when the two pistol shots echoed through the forest.

-MMMM-

Next thing Athos was aware of was a constant ringing, a steady pounding sensation behind his ears and the disgusting feeling of ropes cutting open his skin. His lips were dry, and his lids heavy. It took him a lot of time to remember what had happened. 

The Comte de la Fère. A man who still brought a lot of troubles into Athos’ life. And he remembered. The words that had sent him over the edge. 

_Kill them._

Porthos and Aramis. Executed by a couple of bandits in the middle of a godforsaken forest, only a few miles away from Paris. They’ve been so close to home, so close to the safety of Paris. 

They did not deserve this. But Athos could not grasp what has happened, his mind not able to form a proper thought.

Now he slowly started to realize where he was, and in what situation he was. He was tied to a chair, one that felt as if it could collapse any second. He could smell fresh air, and he could hear the soft rushing of waves brushing against stone. 

Which meant, he was most likely outside, probably near the lake he and his comrades passed a few hours earlier. 

He sluggishly opened his eyes. His sight was blurred, but he was sure it was still daylight. He was able to make out the blurred outlines of three men, one leaning against a large tree-trunk, the others were crouching down in front of Athos. 

“Rise and shine, sunshine,” one of them greeted him, and Athos recognized him as the leader from earlier. 

Athos shifted on the chair, glaring at the leader with cold, pale eyes.

“Where are my comrades?” he asked, his voice unusually low and raspy.

The leader was playing with a knife in his hands, the blade slipping through his fingers just so the other hand could catch it. It made Athos even more uncomfortable. 

The man sighed overdramatically and suddenly rammed the knife into the ground. 

“You see, I wanted to let them go. But I fear their heroic behavior and their threats towards me cost them their lives.”

Athos tried to jump up from the chair, but the bindings were strong as iron chains. He threw himself against them, but another man restrained him from behind, punching him hard against the jaw. 

Athos could feel the blood gathering in his mouth and spit it out in disgust, before he returned his gaze at the leader, breathing heavily. 

“I’m going to kill you,” he growled and received another punch that sent his head snapping sideways. 

“See?” the leader spoke, his voice hysterically high. “Those were the exact words that sealed your comrade’s doom. But don’t worry, there are other things you need to face now.”

Athos said nothing, he just stared at the men with hate glistering in his eyes, looking like a caged animal. 

“Alright, alright, enough!” the third man from the background finally declared and approached slowly. He was a tall and slim man, his dirty blonde hair hanging over his shoulders, his face cleanly shaven. He had dark, somber eyes, almost black and radiating a certain sadness. Dark circles formed under his eyes, which underlined his shabby appearance.

It was hard, but Athos eventually recognized this man. The name was burning on his tongue, but he swallowed hard and just continued to stare at them. 

This was Jean Duveau. A name that had haunted the Comte de la Fère for years, and a face he had never been able to forget. Not even when he became Athos. 

“Comte de la Fère,” Duveau addressed him with a sneering tone in his voice, very similar to Athos’. “Or should I say Athos?”

Athos rolled his eyes. “Whatever makes you happy,” he replied stiffly.

Duveau ignored his comment. “You cannot imagine how long I’ve been waiting for this moment. You are hard to catch alone. I’m sorry about your friends, but they left us no choice.”

“You underestimate them,” he simply said.

Duveau laughed, and he very much resembled a hyena. Or at least that’s what Athos imagined a hyena would sound like. 

“As much respect as I have for the musketeers, but they’re not bulletproof. But I am not here to talk about your friends. I’m here in the name of justice.”

Athos snorted scornfully. “You’re mistaking justice with vengeance, Duveau.”

Duveau ignored him again, but the man who had led the attack on his friends didn’t miss the opportunity to punch Athos against his temple for his truculence. 

“Comte de la Fère, my former liege lord. You stand accused of betraying your duties as a Comte and murdering my brother, Antoine Duveau. How do you answer these charges?”

Athos took a second to let the words sink in. And, as ridiculous as it might seem, he could barely hold back a desperate laughter. 

“You have lost your mind, Duveau.”

“How do you answer these charges?” the man repeated and took a step forward, his tall figure towering over Athos’ shackled form. 

“Not guilty.” If this was the way things were supposed to go, Athos could as well just play the game.

The answer came in another, heavy punch, and Athos felt his lips split and the blood running down his chin. 

“That’s what I thought. You’re going to confess your crimes.” Duveau stood up straight, his face distorted with madness. “You’re going to confess what you did to my brother, and then we’ll see how justice serves.”

-MMMM-

“Alright, gentlemen, this is not how it needs to go.”

Aramis was talking to their future executioners, while watching with one eye how Athos was knocked out. He and his captors disappeared very quickly. 

“I’m afraid I have my orders,” one of them answered. 

“Yes, and I have mine,” Aramis answered cautiously, catching Porthos’ confused look with his eye. “My orders are to return to my Captain this evening and report back to him. Getting killed would cause an enormous…delay.”

“You would get reinforcements. A risk we cannot take,” the man answered, but Aramis thought he saw a hint of uncertainty in the man’s eyes. Porthos noticed that too. 

So he caught up with Aramis’ strategy and walked up to the man who had his pistol aimed at him. The man raised his weapon, his eyes wide open. 

“Stay where you are,” he stuttered, but Porthos didn’t care and stopped about two feet in front of him.

Aramis did the same. He approached the second man, who, contrary to Porthos’ opponent, just stared at him with an ice cold expression. 

“Those are my pistols,” Aramis commented dryly and motioned towards the weapons aimed at them. 

“I am sorry, musketeers,” the man in front of Aramis said, and he was sure to hear sincere pity. “I have my orders.”

Before Aramis was able to retort something clever, he heard the promising, but short fighting noises to his left and when he turned his head to check on Porthos, he spotted the tall musketeer behind his attacker, holding the young, frightened man at gunpoint. 

Aramis’ opponent didn’t hesitate for a long time and aimed at Aramis’ head. 

“One wrong move and your friend here pays for it,” he threatened. 

Porthos didn’t even blink.“Put the gun down,” he growled menacingly. “I don’t have any inhibitions to do what’s necessary.”

“None of us has to die here,” Aramis tried calmly and raised a placating hand. “We’re not going to harm you if you surrender.”

“Renard, please,” the man held in the headlock by Porthos whimpered. He was barely more than a child. Neither Aramis nor Porthos wished to harm them. 

“Lower your weapon, musketeer!” Renard yelled, but he too sounded as if he wasn’t sure about this. 

“Screw it!” Porthos cursed and used his weapon. There was a loud bang and the ball found its way into the upper arm of Renard, just above the elbow. Renard screamed and let go of his pistol, which Aramis dived for immediately and snatched it out of the man’s reach, before he pinned him to the ground. 

Aramis exchanged a quick look with Porthos, before he raised his pistol up high and fired another shot up in the air, so that Athos’ captor, who was probably still within earshot, would be fooled to think the two musketeers have been executed. 

Aramis couldn’t help but grin. 

“I am sorry,” he now hissed into the attacker’s ear, “But you left us no choice.”

Unfortunately, the attacker’s horses had fled as soon as Porthos had used his pistol, and the two animals now disappeared behind the trees. 

Ten minutes later, Porthos and Aramis had tied the two men to a tree, using the rope one of them had carried with him. Aramis had taken care of the gunshot wound in Renard’s arm, and the bandage seemed to hold and the bleeding wasn’t too bad.

“Where have they taken Athos?” Porthos wasn’t asking nicely. He was worried about his brother, and with every minute the two didn’t open their mouths, Athos fate became more uncertain.

“Who?” Renard now answered shortly, and he sounded honestly confused.

Aramis rolled his eyes. “The Comte de la Fère. Where have they taken him?”

“And why?” Porthos added, narrowing his eyes.

Renard sighed and avoided to look at them, but Pichet, the young man who looked insanely scared, twitched his muscles as if he’d wanted to say something.

“Spit it out boy, I don’t want to do this the hard way,” Porthos commanded, waving with his pistol into Pichet’s direction.

“You keep your mouth shut!” Renard said, but didn’t seem too convinced with these words himself. 

“Will you let us live then?” Pichet asked, his voice barely more than a whisper.

“Pichet!” Renard warned but Aramis was able to shut him up with a glare.

“We will,” Porthos promised, kneeling down in front of the man. “You have our word. And we are men of honor.” 

Pichet bit his lip, but eventually nodded. Renard beside him let his head fall back against the tree dramatically.

“The man who pays us…,” he started, his voice quivering with fear. 

“Duveau?” Porthos interjected. 

Pichet nodded. “He wants to have his vengeance. De la Fère executed his brother several years ago when you know…he was still a Comte. Antoine was his name, and de la Fère executed him after Antoine had been accused of murder.”

“So, he did his duty?” Aramis wanted to know. “Executing murderers is within the duty of the landlord. Athos would never kill someone if he could avoid it.”

Pichet swallowed nervously. “That’s not how Jean sees it. All he sees is the man who murdered his brother.”

“And what does he plan to do to Ath…de la Fère?” Porthos queried. 

Pichet pressed his lips together, and this time, pity shone from his clear, blue eyes. “I don’t think you would want to know.”

Aramis groaned. “My patience is at its limits. Where have they taken him?” he asked, trying hard to cover the anger in his voice. 

Pichet’s breath hitched, he was staring at Aramis, looking terrified. 

Renard sighed. “The lake. We have a camp there. In eastern direction.”

“Oh, now you talk?” Porthos spat while he was reattaching his pistol to his weapon belt.

Renard shrugged. “We failed to follow Duveau’s orders. We aren’t gonna see any money anyway.”

Aramis raised an eyebrow. “How honorable,” he commented, his voice dripping with sarcasm. The marksman then put on his hat and grinned at the two men.   
“Thank you for your cooperation.”

He then turned on the heel and left them there by the tree, hearing Porthos following closely behind him. 

“Hey what about us?” they heard Pichet shouting. 

“You gave us your word!” Renard insisted. 

“Yes, we did!” Porthos shouted back, a hint of amusement coloring his tone. “And as far as I can see, you are still alive. If what you told us about Duveau turns out to be true, we will come back for you.”

Aramis didn’t even bother to turn around, he just waved with his pistol as a way of saying goodbye.

“That was…close,” he heard Porthos murmur next to him. Aramis grimaced. 

“Yes, but we live. Now, we should get to Athos as soon as possible. Any idea where our horses might’ve gone?”

Porthos shrugged. “We can follow the road, maybe the loyal beasts didn’t run that far.”

Aramis grunted as confirmation, keeping a fast pace. 

“I’m really getting pissed by now,” he growled. “We were so close to home, to warm beds and fresh wine!” 

Porthos squeezed his uninjured shoulder in sympathy. “I know my friend. But some shadows still linger in the present. Unfortunately, Athos has to experience it firsthand.”

Aramis briefly closed his eyes, before he looked up to Porthos. “We’re not going to leave him there,” he said. It was a statement, not a question. 

Porthos shook his head in agreement, and his face lit up as he spotted something around the corner. 

“Good news,” he stated and suddenly started running. “The Garrison not only has loyal musketeers.” He threw a smug grin at Aramis.“The animals didn’t leave us either.”

-MMMM-

“Do you deny that you killed Antoine, my younger brother, eight years ago in cold blood?” Duveau asked again, holding Athos’ bloody chin up with his hand. 

Athos withstood the man’s look, arching an eyebrow. “No.”

“So you admit that you are guilty?”

“I’m not.”

Duveau sighed. “Listen here, Comte,” he spat and forced Athos’ head up so the musketeer could see the expression of pure hate on his captor’s face. “If you think there is a way for you out of this, you are mistaken. But admitting the murder could spare you a lot of pain.”

Duveau gave the signal and one of the mercenaries landed two punches against Athos’ ribs. It drew all air out of his lungs and he gasped, struggling to take in the air.   
“I did kill your brother, Duveau. But I did not murder him. It was my duty as a Comte to punish the criminals living on my land.”

“He was an innocent, pure soul!” Duveau screamed and Athos had to take another, heavy hit against the jaw. The strike was so hard it sent Athos sideways and to the ground, together with the chair he was bound to. 

Athos groaned, squeezing his eyes shut in an attempt to breathe regularly against the pain that spread through his face and ribs.

Two of Duveau’s henchmen pulled the chair back up, together with Athos on it. 

“I will break you, de la Fère!” Duveau declared, his voice high in his madness. “I will make you yield. Unless you confess.”

“What?” Athos growled, honestly offended by now. “That I ordered your brother’s death? That I, as the Comte, decided he had to be punished for his crimes?”

“What did he do that he needed to be punished so hard?” the ‘leader’ from earlier spoke. “Duveau told us that Antoine stole jewels that had been in your family’s possession. A thief doesn’t need to be executed!”

“You could’ve shown mercy,” another one added. 

Athos didn’t know what to say for a second, as this explanation was so ridiculous that he almost had to hold back a laugh. 

But he decided just to snort in disbelief. “Duveau is a liar. I wouldn’t have executed Antoine for stealing some worthless jewels.”

Suddenly, he felt the cold tip of a blade against his neck, and a searing pain when the weapon ever so slightly cut through his skin. 

“You did!” Duveau declared. “And you will answer for this!” 

Athos sighed. “Yes, you pointed that out already. Why don’t you tell your friends what really happened? They deserve the truth, don’t you think?”

He noticed Duveau’s features derailing for a split second before the man quickly gathered himself and landed another heavy punch into Athos’ already aching ribs. 

“What is he talking about, Duveau?” the ‘leader’ asked reproachfully and let go of Athos, who used the short break to catch his breath. 

But the accused man didn’t even pay a little attention to his fellow mercenaries, he just kept staring at Athos, his face distorted with anger and what Athos believed to be grief.

“Antoine was a good man.”

“He was,” Athos admitted. “Until he murdered two of the people who worked at my estate, just to escape with the jewels undetected.”

Duveau’s lips trembled.“He admired you!”

“He was a murderer,” Athos replied coldly. “I do not need admiration from a man who murdered my friends in cold blood.”

Duveau grabbed Athos by the chin, digging his long, dirty fingernails into Athos’ skin. “You condemn my brother, but bedded the woman who murdered your own kin?”

A white flash of anger crossed Athos’ mind and he considered hitting his head against Duveau’s face, but he decided to stay calm. 

“Careful,” he warned between clenched, bloodstained teeth. 

“What?” Duveau repeated, and his hand wandered down to Athos’ throat, enclosing it with his claws. “Can’t even face your own truth? You have to pay for what you did to my brother!”

Athos felt the grip around his throat tighten, but he could do nothing but gasp for air. 

“So you want vengeance, not justice, Duveau?” one of his men addressed their leader. 

Athos heard Duveau snapping back through his clouded mind. “You’ll get paid, that’s all you should worry about now.” The hold around his throat eventually loosened a little bit, and Athos welcomed every bit of air he was able to catch.

“Where the hell are Renard and Pichet? They should have been back by now, it’s not that difficult to kill two men,” one of Duveau’s mercenaries declared with a hint of panic in his voice.

Athos grinned darkly. 

“Musketeers don’t die easily.” 

Duveau giggled, an awfully creepy sound, accompanied by the sheer madness written all over his face.

“You want to test that, Athos?” He spoke the name with so much disgust it made Athos cringe. 

“Let’s get the facts straight,” Athos rasped. “You want to kill me because I have been forced to execute your brother after he committed murder, two times. You want your vengeance.”

Duveau said nothing, he just looked at him, breathing heavily in his wrath. 

“This still can end differently. Let me go now, and I promise you I won’t come after you. I’ll pretend this little incident never happened.”

“Really?” one of the mercenaries threw in. “After we killed your two brothers-in-arms?”

Athos rolled his eyes. “In case you haven’t noticed, I doubt that your idiot followers were successful. Or why didn’t they come back yet?” 

He noticed the mercenaries exchanging worried looks, but Duveau had nothing but hate glistering in his cold eyes.

“I waited years for this. Years to face Antoine’s murderer. You are not taking that away from me!” He screamed in frustration, kicking Athos hard against the shin. “Don’t you dare to take that away from me!”

Athos closed his eyes, preparing himself for what was to come. This man could not be reasoned with. For his own sanity, he had tried to get out of this without harming anyone.

“Be smart, Duveau,” he tried again, one last time. “My whole regiment will hunt you down. The murder of one of his musketeers is nothing the king is going to take lightly. Kill me, and you’re a dead man.”

Duveau’s face was blank, empty. As he spoke now, it sounded as if it was a dead man talking, his tone devoid of emotion. 

“Then I’ll die knowing that my brother has been avenged.”

-MMMM-

“That’s a dumb plan,” Aramis murmured, his comment almost getting lost in the soft breeze. 

Porthos scoffed. “You came up with this like ten minutes ago.”

“Doesn’t mean the plan is good.” 

“Well, then you’re the only one to blame. This is your idea,” Porthos remarked dryly. 

“You have a better one?” Aramis wanted to know, whirling around so fast he almost hit Porthos in the face. 

“Uh, no?” 

“There you go.” 

Porthos and Aramis were hiding behind some trees near the bank. They had found the horses and easily found the way back to where the lake was.   
Renard hadn’t lied to them. Even though they were on the opposite site, they were able to clearly make out the camp near the bank of the lake, a short distance away from them. 

They had been able to make out Athos, tied to a chair, being beaten by who they thought had to be Duveau. 

“Alright, who takes which part?” Aramis asked absent-mindedly, watching nervously how Athos was apparently trying to reason with his captor and received answers in form of different violent acts. 

Porthos stared at him in confusion. 

“I thought it was obvious,” the tall musketeer stuttered nervously. 

“No, we just said that one of us will arrange a distraction and set a fire, while the other one approaches through the water, frees Athos and makes an escape with him,” Aramis declared impatiently.

Porthos raised an eyebrow. “Yes, obvious, what did I say?”

Aramis sighed. “Let me guess, I’ll get to go for a swim, right?”

“It was your idea,” Porthos defended himself. “And besides, I’ve always been better with setting things on fire anyway.”

Aramis hesitated for another second, his eyes locked on Athos’ small figure on the other side of the lake. And by the look of it, their friend was close to being strangled. 

“Alright, alright,” Aramis finally gave in, taking off his doublet and threw it on the ground. He then drew his two pistols from his belt and held them out to Porthos.   
“If you lose them,” the marksman began but Porthos cut him off. 

“Yes, yes, I know, you’ll torment me until and through the afterlife, got it.” 

“I was going to say you’ll wish you never met me,” Aramis explained and flashed a childish grin. “But that works too. Come on, get moving, I don’t want to stay in here any longer than I have to.”

With these words, he waded into the water until it was deep enough to swim. Aramis kept his dagger in his hand, his eyes focused on Athos’ distant figure.   
“Don’t worry, my friend,” Porthos assured as he mounted his horse again.”I have many abilities, but setting things on fire is definitely one of my strongest ones.”  
With these words, he urged his horse into a faster pace, and didn’t see the murdering glare Aramis bestowed him.

-MMMM-

Athos spit out the blood that had gathered in his mouth with disgust. He was blind on one eye, a wound on his forehead was dripping with blood and it had gotten in his eye.

“You’ll die avenging a murderer,” he hissed at Duveau who was towering over him, the face shadowed by madness and wrath. “I did not want to kill your brother. But it was my duty, and letting a murderer live on my lands was a risk I could not take.”

He felt Duveau’s clawing grip around his throat again. 

“But you let your murderous wife into your bed. Your duty is not an excuse!” 

“For what, your murdering brother?” Athos choked out, white, hot anger welling up in him. “He killed Davide and Laurie. Laurie was only sixteen! And he killed her for some worthless jewels!”

“Is that true?” one of Duveau’s men wanted to know.

“Duveau!” another one inquired. 

“Silence!” Duveau screamed at them and pulled out his dagger. 

“Duveau, wait!” one of his men said and stepped up to the madman, but he pushed him back to focus on Athos. 

Due to the lack of oxygen, Athos felt like he was close to passing out, but he did not want to give this man any satisfaction. He was a misguided soul, innocent until now, but his lust for vengeance seemed to have turned him into a hateful sadist, lost in his grief and lack of understanding. 

“I planned on ending you the same way you ended Antoine, but that is too good for you. When the sun sets, you’ll wish I’d show mercy. You’ll beg for my forgiveness.”

“Then stop talking,” Athos provoked. “And finally keep your empty promises.”

He was grabbed by the collar, Duveau’s arm drawn back with the blade in his hand, ready to slash Athos’ face, when they were interrupted by one of the mercenaries.

“Do you guys smell that?” he asked casually, as if he didn’t witness the brutality of their life and death duel for the past hour. 

Athos, once he was able to, took in a deep breath. The bitter, stinging scent of smoke entered his lungs, and he grimaced. 

“Fire,” Duveau murmured and let go of Athos. “Stay here, de la Fère, I will deal with you very soon!”

Athos coughed and spit out a mouthful of blood. 

“Idiot,” he spat as he watched Duveau and his two men run off toward a larger tent that apparently had caught fire. Without wasting any more time, he started trying to wriggle his hands free, but those ropes were insanely tight and all he did was cut deeper into his already bruised skin.

He stopped for a second when he heard the splashing of water behind him, and he furrowed his brow in confusion. It seemed as if he started imagining things now.   
But he quickly regained his focus and eagerly fought to get the ropes off, cursing internally about his two comrades whose help he could really use now.

Whether it was a higher power or sheer luck he didn’t know, but he received an answer to his requests very soon.

“Easy, mon ami,” he suddenly heard a soothing voice in his ear and he recognized it as Aramis’. Athos instantly relaxed.

“You missed me?” Aramis continued and Athos didn’t have to look at him to know his friend was smiling triumphantly. 

Athos threw his head sideways to look at his friend, who was completely soaked in water, and who was using his dagger to cut him loose now. 

Athos growled affirmative. 

“Come on, before they come back!” Aramis hissed and pulled Athos on his feet, his keen eyes inspecting the area. “Can you walk?”

Athos scowled as a response and he shook Aramis’ hand off before he started to take two unsteady steps, the pain spreading from his shin through his whole leg and the beating he received to his face was making him nauseous. 

“I don’t have time for your stubbornness, Athos,” Aramis cursed and pulled Athos arm over his own, wet shoulder, helping his friend to walk. 

They heard loud shouting from where the fire had broken out, Duveau was apparently arguing very loudly with his two mercenaries. 

“What … happened to the two men who were ordered to kill you?” Athos rasped, his eyes still glued to the fire. 

“No worries, they’re alright,” Aramis replied, but then he frowned. “Well, shot, but alive. We came as fast as we could.” He hesitated, but continued with a steady voice.  
“You’ll have some explanations to do.” 

Athos growled gruffly. 

“After we get out of here of course,” Aramis added, and basically had to drag Athos towards the woods. 

They almost ran into Porthos, who was breathing hard due to the sprint he had just absolved.

“God, the people these days are way too easy to distract,” he said, talking more to himself than to anyone else. “Athos, good to see you’re still in one peace.” He made a pause, apparently rearranging his thoughts as he now caught sight of the musketeer’s bloody face. “Well, for the most part, at least.”

“Can we leave now?” Aramis threw in dryly. 

“No, not yet, we have to…,” Athos mumbled, and he was trying to escape Aramis’ grip and walk back to the fire. 

“Athos!” Porthos shouted warningly and he saw Aramis shaking his head in exasperation.

“We’ll get him, Athos,” he said roughly, holding his friend back by the shoulder. “But not yet.” 

“We have to get some distance, and once we’re settled, we can…,” but Porthos cut off what he was about to say, his eyes drawn to the fire he himself had caused in the camp. 

Athos followed his gaze and saw what unsettled his friends, as Aramis was taking his pistols back from Porthos and raised his firearm.

One lonely figure was limping away from the fire and towards Athos and the others, the long, bloodied rapier dragging through the dirt at his feet. 

It wasn’t Duveau. 

It was the man who had led the ambush, and who had taken over the first half of the beating Athos had received. He limped towards them, his head hanging low, his face ashen and betted in sweat from the heat of the fire. 

“Stay where you are!” Aramis snarled, aiming with his pistol. It looked a little ridiculous, really, because Aramis looked as if he’d just fallen into a well and he was holding Athos upright with the other arm, but his facial expression was deadly serious. 

Athos felt Porthos on his other side shifting nervously as well, the broad musketeer nervously twitching with his hand towards his rapier.   
But the man actually did as he was told and froze on the spot, his eyes slowly drifting towards them. Sprinkles of blood painted his face, and he looked absolutely shocked. 

“Where is Duveau?” Athos wanted to know, trying to look as fierce as possible clutching onto Aramis’ shoulder. 

“He…he shot Théo. I…I couldn’t…” His gaze wandered back towards the bloody sword in his hands and he dropped it immediately. Athos guessed that Théo was the other man who had served under Duveau. 

“You killed ‘im?” Porthos dug deeper, not relaxing a tiny bit.

The man slowly nodded. “Théo and I questioned his…ambitions,” he stuttered, and as far as Athos could tell, there was not much left of the arrogant, cruel man he had met earlier. “He shot him and wanted to get rid of me too, I…I had no choice.”

A strange feeling overcame Athos. A mixture of sorrow and hate, of satisfaction and pity. He had known Duveau for a long time. He had lost himself so much in his search for vengeance that he had become a murderer himself. It wasn’t fair, but his burning jaw and his aching ribs reminded him of how misled this man had been.   
As if Athos had done his duty as a Comte gladly. As if he had gladly sentenced his wife to death. Or Antoine. But they had both turned into cold-blooded murderers. Athos felt no remorse. It took a toll on him, but he knew what he had done had been his duty and necessary, otherwise he would lose himself in his thoughts. 

The man now stumbled forward, despite Aramis’ warnings, but he was unarmed now. He fell to his knees in front of Athos, bowing his head as if he was just waiting for the sword to execute him. 

“Comte de la Fère, I have been mistaken about the incidents that led me here. I trusted a traitor, and he killed my friend out of his clouded judgment and madness. I accept every punishment you claim to be fitting.”

Athos roughly nudged Aramis’ by the shoulder and his friend finally lowered the weapon.

“I’m no longer the Comte de la Fère,” he then explained, his voice cold as ice. “My name is Athos. I am a musketeer.”He made a short pause, rethinking what he was about to say. “Go your way. Make sure not to cross my path again in the near future. Not because you gave me the beating of the year,” and with the thought of that, he rubbed his bruised chin. “But because you ordered to kill my brothers. That’s something I’m not going to forgive so easily.”

The man looked up in surprise, still on his knees. 

“Go!” Athos barked, his usual authority shadowing his worn out appearance. 

The man got up on his feet, bowed his head and limped off towards the camp. 

Athos’ muscles finally relaxed and he took in a deep breath to calm himself, staggering backwards in the process. 

“Easy, my friend,” Porthos murmured and took it on himself to steady Athos, while Aramis went to fetch the horses. 

An uncomfortable silence settled between Athos and Porthos. Athos gratefully accepted Porthos’ water can and tried to clean some of the blood off his bruised face. 

“Who was he?” Porthos asked carefully, not sure how to address the subject. 

“Doesn’t matter,” Athos retorted shortly. “Now he’s nothing but a ghost from the past.”

Porthos caught his gaze, and he seemed a little concerned.

“The man’s gone mad,” he stated simply, squeezing Athos’ arm reassuringly. “Whatever happened, you’re not to blame.”

Athos said nothing, but gave Porthos a brief, thankful nod. Moments later, they already heard Aramis approaching with the horses. 

Athos took his horses’ reins and doubtfully looked up to the saddle, before he felt Porthos next to him, offering him a helping hand. 

“We should head back to Paris, get you checked up,” Aramis explained, gently stroking his horses’ neck. 

“I’m fine,” Athos growled, putting one uninjured foot into the stirrup. 

He could almost hear Porthos rolling his eyes. “Yes, and I’m the First minister of France. Come on.” Without further explanations, he grabbed Athos by the waist and hauled him up into the saddle. 

Athos grumbled something incomprehensible.

Aramis shook his hair like a dog, the water drops spraying in all directions.

“You look like a drenched dog,” Athos commented dryly. 

“’t was his own plan,” Porthos explained with a yawn.

“But it worked,” Aramis growled in frustration and turned towards his own horse, putting on his doublet and reattaching the pistols to his belt. “Though it probably would’ve worked just as good without the swimming part. Doesn’t matter now.” He shrugged.

Athos grimaced in pain as he dug his heels into his horses flanks, but then he turned towards his friend once more. 

““Oh and Aramis?”

“Yes?”

“Next time, maybe a little less drinking and a little more attention, don’t you think?”

Aramis snorted. 

“We saved your ass, Athos. Don’t make me regret that.”

Athos huffed a dry laugh.

“And by the way,” Aramis added and exchanged an amused look with Porthos as he mounted his horse again. “That wine of yours was truly delicious.”

-MMMM-

**Le ‘bouclier rouillé’, Paris, 1656**

“Athos was a Comte?” Verde’s mouth was wide open in surprise. 

Brujon nodded. “He tried to hide it when he became part of the regiment, but a man of nobility is easy to recognize. At least, that’s what Aramis told me. I was still a child when Athos renounced his title and joined the musketeers.” 

“Did he ever go back to his estate?” Rissé asked, absolutely drawn into the story. 

“What, to Pinon?” Brujon was a little surprised. “Before the war, yes, one time, and that wasn’t voluntarily. But he appointed a mayor, and the village was left in good hands.”

“Most people dream of the privileges the aristocracy owns. And he just abandons it,” another soldier sighed, shaking his head in disbelief. 

Gaulier scowled. “I think the story my friend here just told shows very well that with the privileges, duties come along as well. And those duties can change a man’s life. You of all people should know this.”

The soldier just raised an eyebrow and his glass. 

“Did they ever asked, at that time, I mean?” Rissé asked, turned towards Brujon. 

“What do you mean?”

“Porthos and Aramis. Before this Duveau turned up. Did they ever ask about Athos and why he became a musketeer?”

Brujon sighed. “They didn’t have to. It didn’t matter for them, and you don’t get to know a person by questioning them about their pasts. When the time is right, you’ll find out eventually.” He eyed Verde, who was still looking at Brujon, totally in awe with the story he had just been told. 

“How do you know all this?” he asked. 

Brujon just winked. “I have my sources. And I served under Athos for some time as well.” He poured some more wine into his cup. “I have my commission for over twenty years now. The stories I have to tell somehow just pile up.”

He grinned at the excited child. “And whatever your father can’t tell you, I probably can. And will.” 

He smirked when he noticed Gaulier’s offended look. 

“If your father says it’s okay you hear them, of course.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No worries, I think this was the longest of those stories. Next ones are a bit shorter! Thanks for reading!


	3. The Sword of War

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> General Porthos and Brujon are participating in battles at the front, until one day, Minister Aramis calls them back to Paris, where boundaries are tested.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one has war themes, and everything that goes along with it.

__

_“War is always an adventure to those who’ve never seen it.” – Anthony Ryan_

**“Le bouclier rouillé”, Paris, 1656**

“As long as you don’t encourage him to do something one might regret later, I’m fine with whatever stories you like to tell, old man,” Gaulier teased Brujon, who, at most, was five years older than his closest friend. 

Brujon rolled his eyes. “I know, Gaulier.”

He then took a look around, his gaze wandering over the six men assembled at the table. He noticed that not all of them were there. 

“By the way, where is Adrien?” he asked. “I haven’t seen him since Monday.” 

Adrien was a young man, in his early twenties, who had joined the regiment a year ago. He was very social, that’s why he had already made a lot of friends in the regiment over the past year. He rarely missed an occasion to hang out with his comrades and have a drink. 

He did not receive a verbal answer to his question. Gaulier shifted uncomfortably in on his chair, suddenly very interested in Verde’s hair. Rissé’s eyes were burning holes into the ground, he acted as if he hadn’t heard Brujon. They were hiding something. 

“What is it?” he demanded to know. 

Gaulier sighed. “Look, man, I didn’t want to upset you.”

“What. Is. It?” Brujon repeated slowly, the words escaping his mouth through tightly clenched teeth. “Where is Adrien?”

Gaulier grimaced, swallowing nervously. Brujon has never seen him so uncomfortable. 

“Yesterday, when you’ve been on guard duty at the palace, General Chèra visited the garrison. The army’s running out of recruits, he came to Paris to hire anew. And…”

“And the Captain just gave him a few musketeers?” Brujon cut in disbelievingly. He could not imagine d’Artagnan would do such thing. Especially not without telling Brujon.

Gaulier shook his head. “No, no, of course not. But Adrien…he…”

“He volunteered,” Rissé revealed with a sigh, rubbing his tired eyes. “Despite the Captain’s insisting, he wouldn’t listen. Called it an adventure he’s been waiting his whole life for.”

Brujon tightened the grip he had around his cup. He was quivering with anger and disappointment.

“And why did he not tell me? Why did he just disappear without saying a single word to me?”

“You would’ve only tried to talk him out of it!” Rissé explained calmly.

“With every right!” Brujon defended himself, trying to keep his anger at bay. A thought crossed his mind. “What did the captain say about that?”

Gaulier snorted. “The captain didn’t have a say in it. The general demanded new troops, and they take everyone they can get.”

Brujon slammed his cup on the table, so hard it made Verde jump in shock. He immediately sent an apologetic look to the child. 

“Look, I know what you’re thinking right now, but Adrien makes his own choices,” Gaulier tried to calm his friend.

Brujon scowled. “If his own choices lead to his doom, I prefer to make them for him.” 

Rissé, very quietly, played with his goblet between his fingers. “You see, this war isn’t the same it was twenty years ago.”

Brujon laughed a cruel, wry laugh. “War never changes, Rissé. It never does.”

Gaulier on the other hand looked as if he did not know whether to punch Brujon or give him a hug. “It’s not going to be the same. Adrien is not Gérard.”

“Who is Gérard?” Verde’s voice was nothing more but a whisper. It seemed as if he was scared what the answer would be. 

“Don’t, son,” Gaulier shushed the child, knowing that it was a sensitive subject. 

“No, you know what?” Rissé threw in, casting a challenging glance at Brujon. “Why don’t you tell him, my friend? This is a story as important as all the heroic other stories.”

Brujon was considering strangling Rissé for his behavior, but unfortunately, he was right.

“The story of Gérard Ducert isn’t a happy story. It’s cruel in its honesty. You’re sure you want to hear that, Verde?”

The child nodded carefully, tightly grasping his father’s arm. “Was he a foe?” he asked in his childish innocence.

Brujon shook his head in dismay. 

“No. No, he was a friend. The only foe was the war.”

-MMMM-

**Les Ardennes, Northern border, May 1638**

“I’m getting so tired of this. Just trees, wherever you look. Just old trees and rocks,” Brujon muttered from his horse, a sour tone coloring his voice. He was riding next to the General, Porthos, who was practically looking like a war god in his heavy armor and on top of his giant, black warhorse. He now grimaced, winking at Brujon.

“Don’t forget the fog. It’s lying thick above the hills these days.”

“Stop complaining, Brujon,” a voice stated from behind and Gérard, a cadet, appeared next to Brujon, with a smug grin on his face. “This is better than enduring the hypocrisy of Paris. Finally a real adventure!” 

Brujon noticed Porthos throwing murderous stares at Gérard, but the general decided to hold his tongue. 

“And adventure?” Brujon murmured sourly, nudging Gérard against the shoulder. “I thought I was damned with the naivety of youth, but apparently, I have competition.”

“What, you are barely willing to protect France against those who’d harm it?” Gérard asked, but with an amused smile on his face. Brujon scowled, looked affronted.

“A joke, my friend,” Gérard teased and shook his head. “Just a joke.”

“Well, not a good one,” General Porthos threw in from the side, before he rolled his eyes and urged his horse to a faster pace. 

“Wow,” Gérard breathed, leaning forward in his saddle. “He’s in a really sour mood, isn’t he?”

Brujon rolled his eyes as well, but granted his friend a forgiving smile. “Considering your annoying enthusiasm for this war, I can’t really blame him.” 

“Hey,” Gérard protested, but did not really seem upset. He calmly chew on a piece of bread, staring absent-mindedly on his horse’s mane. 

“You know,” his friend started and peeked at Porthos. “I accept you all don’t share my joy, but Porthos … I mean the General…he really seems not only to just dislike the war, it seems as he absolutely despises it.”

Brujon narrowed his eyes, as if to question his friend’s sanity. “You know that he already fought at the front for like four years, don’t you?”

“And? I’ve never seen a warrior like him. How can a berserker like him not have fun in fighting?”

“You saw firsthand how war changes a man. How it changed d’Artagnan, for example.” He sighed, grasping his reins and slowing his horse down so he could fall back to Gérard. 

“War is not just about fighting,” Brujon admonished and received an annoyed glare from Gérard. “It’s much more than that. Porthos knows that.” 

Now Gérard seemed to have turned a little bitter. “Oh, and you do too? This is the first time outside of Paris for you too.”

Brujon growled and shook his head. “That’s not what I meant and you know that.”

He suddenly felt a hand on his shoulder, and he turned in his saddle to look at the delighted face of his friend, innocent in his ignorance. Gérard was a born to be a troublemaker, but during the past couple of months, he had become a close friend. He was a helpful, caring soul, though his naivety and his constant desire for a fight were sometimes tiring to endure. 

“You know, once we set up a camp, I’ll let you have some of my wine. We should celebrate, we finally get the chance to prove ourselves.”

Brujon snorted, but he now also had a reassuring smile on his face. “Yes to the wine, and for everything else…” But Gérard was already too far ahead to hear his words, so he finished them, whispering them to himself.

“I hope that God is able to open your eyes, before the inevitable happens”

-MMMM-

**French Military Camp, Northern border, June 1638**  
They hadn’t been warned, there hadn’t been any indication. It had been a night like any other, the soldiers sleeping close to the remains of the campfire, the guards watching the entrance and the area for any movement of the Spanish. The rain was pouring down on them. The weather hadn’t changed the past days, so they had gotten used to it.

They came an hour before dawn. A giant group of Spanish soldiers, taking out the guards first so they could erase the camp unnoticed. One brave soul had managed to ring the alarm bell, waking the whole camp at an instant. He had paid for his bravery with a sliced throat.

General Porthos had been up immediately, his loud voice bellowing orders through the camp. Brujon and Gérard sprinted towards their weapons, and as Brujon turned around, he was already forced to make the first shot, getting rid of an assailing Spaniard and saving Gérards life, as he would’ve ended up impaled on a sword otherwise.

"Where did they come from?" Gérard shouted over the sudden noise of battle and ducked his head to escape a sword thrown at him.

"Follow me!" Porthos barked at them both and raised his rapier up to signal the men to follow him. The rain pelted relentlessly on their unprotected heads, and together they ran to the edge of the woods to check where the Spanish troops came from.

But some did not make it there. As soon as Porthos had given his first order to attack, they heard the thunder of cannons echoing through the valley.  
And with the cannons came a noise that Brujon would never be able to forget. The men's shout turned into torturous death screams when the cannons found their target and tore it to pieces. The tents were ripped out of their fortifications due to the impact. Shattered wood was whirled through the air. Some of the tents caught fire. 

Slowly but surely, Brujon regained his senses, Porthos’ commanding voice ringing in his ear.

“Return fire!” the General shouted, taking down two attackers with only one shot. 

Brujon surveyed the camp from his spot on the hill, seeing the musketeers and other soldiers engaged in a gruesome battle, each man fighting for survival, all of them too focused on their opponents to notice the cries for help, as wounded soldiers waved from where they were trapped in the burning tents, calling for aid they knew they wouldn’t receive. 

Brujon grabbed Gérard by the shoulder. His friend was shocked, his eyes wide open, and he raised his pistol only last second to defend himself, his hand shaking terribly.

“There are still some of us in the tents! We have to get down there and help them!” 

He looked at Porthos, who caught his words, and the General nodded too, before he threw himself into the battle as well, confronting three Spaniards at once with a cry of savage rage. Brujon wanted to run downhill, when he realized Gérard wasn’t following. He faced his friend, grabbing his face gently with both hands. 

“They are trapped down there. They need us! You with me?” He received no answer. “Gérard?” 

Suddenly, life returned to his friend and he nodded, enclosing his rapier and pistol with his hands. Brujon and Gérard ran back to the tents, the other musketeers covered them as soon as they understood what they were up to. 

“Brujon!” A man who was trapped under a wooden table was waving at him, coughing violently from the smoke of the fire. Even through the smoke, Brujon was able to see his teary eyes begging for help. Or mercy.

Brujon staggered towards him, out of the corner of his eye, he noticed Gérard eagerly fighting off an attacker. He turned back to the trapped man and knelt down, feeling the man’s hand clutching his sleeve in a desperate attempt to escape the deadly flames.

“It’s … alright…,” Brujon rasped through the poisonous air. “I got you. We have to…” But he cut off halfway through the sentence. All he heard was a yelled warning from Gérard somewhere behind him, and he saw the box with gunpowder for a split second, just before he was whirled through the air. He hit the ground hard, feeling abandoned weapons below him in the mud. He blinked, stunned, and slowly but surely, an agonizing pain reached through the numbness that had temporarily gotten a hold over his body, his whole torso seemed to be on fire. 

With one hand, he reached to his lower abdomen, and felt a warm, sticky liquid spreading over his fingers. He turned onto his side, gasping for air and struggling to sit up, as he spotted what he for a second believed to be his doom. A horde of Spaniards advanced, their rapiers held out in front of them, ready to cut down every man that crossed their paths. 

Brujon reached for his rapier, but wasn’t able to feel the weapon there. Panic got a hold of him and he thrust himself to the side. What he saw was disturbing. In front of the burning remains of what once was one of their main tents was Gérard, hand on the hilt of his sword, but doing absolutely nothing. Brujon was panicking; the Spaniards seemed to have spotted him. One of them, a General perhaps, made a signal as if to say to his soldier ‘finish him’. 

“Gérard!” His voice was barely more than a pained whisper, but he knew his words reached Gérard. The young musketeers eyes were wide open, absolutely terrified. His face spoke of a horror Brujon had never seen on the man’s face. His eyes met Brujon’s, met the desperate begging for help. 

But Gérard did nothing. Tears were running down his cheeks, his head shaking slightly, as if he was in denial. The Spaniards had almost reached Brujon.

“Please!” Brujon’s voice cracked with despair as the realization what Gérard was about to do slowly hit him. 

“I’m sorry.” Brujon could not hear the words, but he could see Gérard saying them, before the musketeer dropped his sword, turned on the heel and ran for his life. A phantom fist punched Brujon right where his heart was, the disappointment numbing the pain, the disbelief casting out the agony. Last thing he saw was Porthos, throwing himself in the way as the Spaniard was just about to raise his weapon. Brujon did not know what happened then. He fell into the embrace of darkness.

Next time he awoke, he saw the white linen of a tent’s ceiling, dirty with ashes and gunpowder. Dull voices reached his ears, but he could not hear them truly, nor understand what they were saying. But they felt familiar, comforting.

All he wanted was to rest, to regain his strength and to fight side by side with his brothers, whether it was here or in Paris. As long as he was with them, he felt like he was at home. So he lay there, staring at the tent’s ceiling, making out the blurry outlines of men hovering over him, tending to his wounds. All he wanted was to sleep, to give his mind and body the rest it deserved. But there was one truth that his fogged mind didn’t want to process, a truth he, as the loyal musketeer, did not want to face. 

He was left behind, by his friend, his brother, to die in the mud of war. 

-MMMM-

**Outside of Reims, Northern France, three weeks later**

Time passed way too slowly. Brujon and the other wounded men had been brought to this provisional infirmary, where they could recover better and far away from the battles which raged north of them. 

Brujon was recovering slowly, but he was getting better. Ever since he had been able to get up and move around on his own, he had been helping the medics with the other soldiers. He had been forced to restrain them just as Porthos had to restrain him three weeks ago. He had been forced to tell them they were going to be okay while a medic dug a bullet out of the man’s chest. He had been forced to knock them out so the operation could go as quickly as possible, only to find out they never returned. 

The flood of injured soldiers didn’t stop, and the exhaustion became an everyday companion for Brujon. It was early morning, the twentieth day after the ambush on their camp. He was currently sitting at a young man’s bedside, holding his hand in a firm grip, talking reassuringly to him. 

All of his attention was on the young, injured man, who had been in an ambush two days ago. Out of twenty men, only three had survived. And the young soldier still didn’t know what happened to his comrades, he was too lost in his pain and confusion. 

Brujon was torn out of his thoughts when one of the medics tapped him on the shoulder. 

“Brujon, right?” 

He nodded and furrowed his brow, curious what the man wanted from him.

“Your General arrived. He wants to see you.” 

Brujon’s eyes shot up in alert, wide open in surprise. Porthos was here? He hadn’t seen him since the battle, the last thing he remembered was him lying in the tent, Porthos, shouting at him to stay awake. 

Without hesitating any longer, Brujon squeezed the soldier’s hand one more time before he stood up, nodded a thanks to the medic and headed out of the tent.   
He almost collided with the massive figure of Porthos, who had waited directly in front of the entrance.

“Oi, watch where you…Brujon?” Porthos grabbed him by the shoulder. “Thank God you’re alright. I was so worried.”

Brujon managed a crooked smile. “Well, I’m getting there.” He joined Porthos for an awkward half-hug, but then he threw his General a questioning look. 

“What are you doing here?” It wasn’t an accusation, it was an honest question. Brujon knew that they were of different ranks, that the orders Porthos received probably did not involve him, a common soldier. But Porthos just grinned and pulled out a dirty letter from his jacket, waving with it in front of Brujon’s nose.

“Arrived this morning from Paris. I’m called back temporarily for reports. I get to see my family again.” He smiled, a dreaming expression in his eyes. 

Brujon managed a broad, but pained smile. 

“That’s good to hear. I’m happy for you.” He avoided Porthos’ gaze and slowly walked over to a bench, holding his wounded torso with his right hand. 

“That’s not all.” Porthos voice was calm, almost resigned. 

Brujon turned to look at his superior. 

“What is it? You’re looking at me as if it should concern me.”

Porthos’ face turned dark, but he held Brujon’s gaze, as if to give him comfort for what he was about to say.

“The letter is from the Minister. The Minister…I mean Aramis…he also wrote that one of the soldiers of our company has been spotted in Paris. He is charged with desertion and treason for abandoning his duty.”

Brujon looked tired, his hazy eyes resting on Porthos. 

“Okay. And why should I care?”

A flash of anger crossed Portos’ face, but he had it under control very quickly. 

“I think it would be better if you accompany me to Paris. You can recover there as well.”

Brujon raised a questioning eyebrow, Porthos’ words not quite reaching him through his fogged mind. 

“Why?”

Porthos sighed. “It’s Gérard, Brujon. He is back in Paris. He returned there after leaving you to die in the battle.”

-MMMM-

**Palace Le Louvre, August 1638**

“This is weird,” Porthos murmured for the tenth time ever since they’ve been told to wait for their audience. They were standing in front of the Minister’s office in the palace, two guards denying them entrance yet.

“Couple of years ago I was busting his drunk ass out of a fist fight with red guards, and now I have to wait until I am allowed to see him.” He shook his head as if he’d actually feel betrayed. “Just weird. I’m definitely not going to take a bow.”

Brujon snorted. “He’d probably punch you if you would just attempt to do that.”

Porthos grinned. “But then he’d assault _a general_ ,” he explained, as if he’d mean something specific with it. “I’d have every right to defend myself.”

“Yeah, but then you would’ve attacked _the minister_ , Porthos.” He rolled his eyes. “Just because the two of you wear different clothes now doesn’t mean your friendship is a different one. Take it easy.”

Porthos glanced at him for a moment, frowning. “Yeah, you’re probably right.” 

They both looked up when a young man came out of the office, his eyes locking on the two men waiting there. 

“The minister will see you now,” he merely said and held the door open. 

Porthos murmured something incomprehensible before he stalked through the door, Brujon on his heels. The door was closed behind them and they were left alone in the office. 

Aramis leaned against his desk, dressed in the minister uniform, his hair tied back behind his neck. As soon as he spotted Porthos, he moved towards his friend, a broad smile covering his slightly worried expression.

“Porthos!” Brujon wasn’t mad at all that he was left aside for a moment, as the two men who had known each other for over a decade hugged it out after not seeing the other for months.

“Missed ya,” Porthos said sincerely into Aramis’ ear and the Minister shined with delight. He then turned to Brujon and shook his hand. 

“It’s good to see you two again.”

“Fancy,” Porthos commented with a smirk, referring to the noble furniture and neat clothing. 

Aramis rolled his eyes. “Tedious would be the more fitting description. You have no idea what I would give for a decent stay at Paris’ most dirty tavern occasionally just to escape this stubbornness of the court.” 

“That bad?” Porthos queried curiously.

Aramis snorted. “Sometimes it’s hard to believe they possess something like … intellect.”

Porthos grinned. “Well, but it also has its advantages, doesn’t it?” he winked and Brujon could swear Aramis almost blushed, granting his friend a relieved smile. Brujon had no idea what they were talking about. 

“Indeed it has.” He turned serious again, his eyes wandering from Porthos to Brujon and back again. 

“How are you two doing?” He did not ask how the war was. He did not ask how successful their battles have been. He asked about the well-being of two friends, his priority, no matter what happened.

Brujon stayed silent, and Porthos shrugged. “It could be better, but we’re surviving. The fighting has been…tiring the past weeks.”

Aramis nodded knowingly. “So I heard.” He stared at Brujon. “I was told you were injured in battle. Are you well now?” 

Brujon grimaced. “My physical injuries are not worth the talking, they’ll be gone with time. It’s my soul that finds no rest.”

Porthos nodded confirmative, laying one hand on Aramis’ shoulder. “You wrote about the sighting of a deserter here in Paris.” 

Aramis simply nodded. 

“Well, you know that he was part of my company, right?”

“Of course, he left Paris with you and Brujon. Gérard Ducert was seen in Paris. The musketeers are currently searching for him,” Aramis explained as diplomatic as possible.

“Where?” Brujon burst out, not willing to hold back any longer. 

Aramis raised an eyebrow. “A garden, near the Palais de Tuileries. D’Artagnan had businesses to attend to there, when he ran into Gérard. Apparently, he panicked, and knocked d’Artagnan out with his pistol.” He made a short pause. “You can guess that the Captain wasn’t very content. He is searching for Gérard, with a troop of highly trained musketeers. He should be found soon.”

“And then?” Porthos posed the question he knew Aramis did not want to hear. 

The minister shifted uncomfortably from one foot to the other. “Then, first, he’ll be brought to the next prison, probably.”

Porthos scowled. “This is my fault. I should’ve known.”

“Should’ve known what?” the minister wanted to know, locking his hand around Porthos’ wrist. 

“He was so enthusiastic, so thrilled to be with us in this war. He had no clue. But I did. Still, I barely said anything.”

“It’s not your fault, Porthos!” Aramis replied sternly, his controlled desperation slowly fading away.

“He was my responsibility!” Porthos shouted, punching the wall hard in his anger. 

“You are not responsible for the war!” Aramis yelled furiously, grabbing his friend by the collar. “And you are not responsible for the effect it has on people.”

“Who are you to judge?” Porthos exclaimed in his wrath, forgetting completely that he and Aramis weren’t alone in the room. “You weren’t there all these years ago!” 

Shock and humiliation flashed over the Minister’s face for a second, before he let go of Porthos and turned on the heel, heading towards his desk. 

“I already bled for France when you were not even capable of swinging a sword. Don’t you dare to say to me I don’t know what war is like,” he hissed. A moment of silence, and regret immediately appeared on Aramis’ face. “I’m sorry, my friend. That was too harsh. I went too far.”

But Porthos just shrugged it off, calming himself with chewing on his lip. “Me too. I am just…I know the Queen meant well when she gave me the title, and I will never be not grateful for it. But I…the responsibilities are something new for me.”

He made a short pause, leaning against the wall for support. 

“Athos was good at it, it always seemed like it was natural for him to use his authority and leadership. But I am not him. This boy ran, he escaped, and if I weren’t so furious about the fact he left his friends to die, I could almost bring up … understanding.” 

“Understanding?” Brujon repeated slowly, not quite believing what he heard.

“Yes, Brujon, understanding. When I first was at the front, seeing this stuff for the first time, I left. After five miles, I realized what I was doing and came back, to save my brothers, to fight for my friends. Gérard he…did not have this realization.”

Porthos stopped, steering his gaze towards the floor, biting his lips in uncertainty.

“You can blame him for leaving you there,” Aramis continued steadily, folding his arms in front of his chest.”You can blame him for not trying to save you. But you cannot blame him for the reality of this war.” 

Brujon did not know what to say, but he for his part could not bring up understanding. Sure, it was cruel, it was terrible, and it was known that war was able to take away all senses of humanity. But as a musketeer, Brujon could not understand how one could leave his friend, his brother, behind, knowing that he would’ve left him to die on a bloodied soil.

Aramis cleared his throat, obviously trying to get back to the topic.

“I’m inclined to let you know exactly what happened, but there is something that needs to be done first. I have an errand to do, and I’d like you, Brujon, to accompany me.”

“Accompany you?” Brujon repeated absent-mindedly. “No, I have to…there is this thing that I have to get to and I…” He broke off, stopping his lame excuse once he felt Porthos’ strict stare on him.

“Brujon,” Porthos ordered, but with a hint of amusement in his voice. “The Minister just asked you to accompany him on an errand, and you refuse?”

“I…well…,” Brujon stuttered but Aramis interrupted him. 

“It’s not going to take very long. Just a suspicion I like to check. And since the Queen doesn’t let me leave the palace without a guard, you’ll come with me, Brujon”

“I’m injured,” Brujon replied flatly, not quite in the mood to play bodyguard for the minister.

“You’re a musketeer,” Aramis countered sharply. “Let’s not waste anymore time. As for you, my friend,” he continued and faced Porthos, “The Queen Regent awaits you in the throne room. A meeting with the council is scheduled for this afternoon. I wish you luck. Trust me, you’ll need it.”

Porthos nodded, a soft smile on his lips.“See you two this evening, in the garrison?”

Aramis mirrored the smile. “For sure.”

-MMMM-

**In the streets of Paris, an hour later**

“Wait here.” They came to a halt in front of a small house, a little offside the other buildings in this quarter. 

Brujon raised an eyebrow. “This is Elodie’s house.” 

Aramis nodded, making sure he was in possession of his pistol. “Good observation,” he just said sarcastically.

“I’m just supposed to wait out here?” Brujon exclaimed accusingly. 

Aramis raised a placating hand. “For now. I need to check something. I have a feeling about this.” He gently slapped Brujon’s cheek. “If I am not back within the next ten minutes, you should probably check on me. Got it?”

“I…,” but Aramis cut him off. 

“Great. I should be back soon.”

And so he waited. He watched the citizens of Paris passing him by, some of them casting curious glances at him as they spotted his uniform and the pauldron he wore so proudly. Some even made comments, but he ignored them, eagerly watching the clock of a nearby church until he was allowed to go after Aramis. 

Whatever Aramis had to do in Elodie’s house, Brujon did not know why he would need his gun for it. And as the clock finally showed him he was allowed to go now, he could not stop his feet from running. His feet flew up the tiny stairs and he swung the door open loudly, just in time to hear the shattering of glass coming from the kitchen. 

All alarm bells rang in Brujon’s head as he sprinted towards the kitchen, his pistol drawn just in case he needed it. As he entered, he saw Aramis’ unconscious figure crumbled on the yground in the corner of the room, a small trace of blood running down his temple. 

Brujon hastily knelt down at the minister’s side, while searching for the source of the attack in the meantime. He found it sooner than anticipated.

The cold metal of a gun was pressed against the back of his head and he froze in his motion, his own hand not letting go of his weapon either. He did not care who the man was, nor did he care what his motives were. His instinct screamed at him and without further hesitation, Brujon ducked his head and hit backwards with his elbow, before he managed to tackle the attacker to the ground. 

The man barely struggled as soon as he saw Brujon’s face, and the musketeer soon realized why.

It was Gérard. 

Suddenly, he let go of him and his former brother-in-arms stumbled backwards and fell heavily against the table. 

“I would’ve never guessed that you’d have the guts to show me your face again, brother!” Brujon said scornfully, and he raised his pistol to point it at Gérard.

“I panicked; I didn’t know what to do!”

“You left me there!” Brujon spat, tears of desperation and anger gathering in his eyes. “You left me there, exposed to the enemy fire. You could’ve at least tried to save me!” 

“And die in the process? Your life for mine? Is that what you want?” 

“Yes, damn right!” Brujon yelled. “I would’ve given mine for yours too.” 

“I don’t think so,” Gérard countered, desperation evident in his voice.

“You’re a coward,” Brujon stated coldly, his lips quivering with anger. 

“No, Brujon,” Gérard replied smoothly. “I’m a survivor. I thought that explosion had already killed you. Saving you would’ve meant certain death for me.”

“That’s a lie you keep telling yourself,” Brujon hissed. “A lie so you can sleep better at night. Tell me, does it work?”

Gérard looked genuinely scared now. It was as if he had a stranger in front of him. “No, it doesn’t.”

_At least he is honest_ , Brujon thought. 

“You were my friend, Gérard," Brujon stated, the tears of disappointment running down his cheeks freely. "My brother.” He swallowed, his voice coming out rasped. “How could you?”

Gérard apparently was at a loss of what to say. He just kept closing his eyes every now and again, as if it could just deflect Brujon’s words off him. 

“I did not know what war is like,” he explained, as an excuse.

“Neither did I. But I would’ve never left you there.”

Gérard looked at him with sad, dark eyes. “Then that’s another difference between the two of us, my friend.” He straightened, standing tall in front of the musketeer.   
“Do what you have to do,” he continued, only sparking Brujon’s anger anew. “I’m a damned man anyway.”

“Don’t do it, Brujon!” Aramis suddenly commanded, clutching his upper arm firmly. Brujon had no idea when he had regained consciousness, or what exactly he had heard from their prior exchange.

“He left me do die! He left me there to save his own skin! How can I ever forgive that?” He was breathing heavily, his anger blinding his judgment. “He was my friend.”

“And you are about to kill your friend,” Aramis insisted, not loosening his grip a little bit. 

“You don’t know what it’s like,” Brujon said between clenched teeth, tears of despair gathering in his eyes. 

“Oh, I do.” Aramis’ voice was calm, demanding. “You ever heard about the massacre of Savoy?”

Brujon nodded with his head, but not quite sure where Aramis was going with this. “Twenty massacred men, one deserter, one lone survivor.” He listed it, like a statistic he had to learn. 

“The lone survivor,” Aramis repeated mockingly. “Yes, a title I haven’t been able to shake off so easily. A mark I carried with me for a long time.”

Brujon tilted his head to the side, narrowing his eyes in surprise. “You?” he asked disbelievingly.

The minister nodded. “I was left behind by my friend to die in the snow too. I saw him again years later, and at the time, I have been forced to kill him.” He made a short pause, gathering his thoughts. “It doesn’t give you the peace you long for, Brujon. It only adds one more ghost to the collection of memories that’ll be with you for your entire life.”

Brujon’s hand shook terribly, and he couldn’t bring himself to stop staring at Gérard, whose expression was a mask of indifference and coldness, not one emotion visible on his face. 

“I don’t ask you to forgive me for what I have done,” Gérard spoke calmly. “I only ask you to spare my life. Remember, we were brothers once.”

Those words triggered an unknown wrath in Brujon and he could not help himself. His fist hit Gérard’s jaw hard, and the impact threw the deserter over the table, the contents flying through the room. Brujon jumped on top of Gérard, grabbing him firmly by the collar.

“You don’t have the right to call me that. You forfeited that right the moment you left me alone.”

“You are hurt!” Gérard retorted. “And I can understand it. But I’m begging you, please, let me go.”

“Brujon!” That was Aramis’ voice. “Shit.”

As he looked up now, Brujon knew what Aramis was referring to. One of the curtains had caught fire, probably from the candle that had been thrown off the table, and the fire was spreading rapidly. Aramis apparently had given up trying to stop it. 

Brujon let go off Gérard immediately, as the stinging scent of smoke now reached his nose as well. He tried to stand up, but as he inhaled the poisonous air, it felt as if a fire erupted in his chest, inflaming the almost healed wounds anew. He looked Gérard, who was coughing from the smoke, lying rambling on the floor. Brujon wanted to reach for his arm, but he could not bring up the strength to do so. 

“Elodie and Marie! Where…?” Brujon yelled at Aramis, who just shook his head as he staggered towards him. 

“They’re at the garrison right…now,” the minister rasped, reaching for Brujon.

The fire spread insanely fast, the fire devouring everything within its path. As if someone had plunged the timbers into alcohol. Brujon made another attempt to get up, holding his arm in front of his mouth, but he fell to the ground again, not knowing where his lack of strength was coming from. 

Before a word could escape his mouth, his vision blackened. Aramis’ desperate shouts were the last thing he remembered.

-MMMM-

The next thing he heard was a soft humming, a comforting tune that sounded very familiar. As he opened his eyes, he was able to make out the blurry outlines of a woman sitting on his bedside, dabbing his forehead with a cold, water-soaked cloth. 

It was Elodie, Porthos’ wife. She really hasn’t been at her house, fortunately. She smiled as soon as she saw that Brujon was awake. 

“Easy. You’re going to be fine,” she said.

Brujon wanted to sit up immediately. “The minister?” he asked urgently. If he was here, then who had brought him here?”

“Alive and well,” Elodie explained soothingly, throwing the cloth on the floor. She nervously bit her lip. “You know, I did not know he was hiding in here. With all the stuff that’s been happening lately, I was constantly busy with helping Constance and the Captain with the Garrison, I’ve barely been at home.” She smiled. “Aramis must’ve suspected something. He just randomly appeared at the Garrison’s doorstep, carrying you over his shoulders, and casually told me that my house caught fire.”

“How did he know?” Brujon rasped as he tried to sit up, rubbing his aching head. 

Elodie shrugged. “You mean Aramis? I don’t know. He just told me he had a feeling.”

Brujon sighed and ran a hand through his hair. “Gérard?” he asked. Elodie shook her head in dismay.

“I don’t know. Aramis doesn’t either. He said he wanted to go back for him too, but passed out as soon as he got you out of the house. He doesn’t know what happened to him.”

Elodie had an incredibly soothing voice, and she now put a calming hand on his shoulder, looking briefly over her shoulder to see her crying daughter. 

“I’m sorry for what happened, Brujon. But you are an indispensable member of the musketeers. My husband needs you. You proved your worth multiple times.” She squeezed his shoulder reassuringly. “Get some rest. You need it.”

-MMMM-

**“Le bouclier rouillé”, Paris, 1656**

Despite everything, Brujon had to smile as he remembered the old times. It was a cruel story for him, a painful memory that sometimes still haunted him in his sleep. He was able to remember Gérards terrified face in his darkest nightmares, able to hear his desperate pleading for understanding in every quiet minute he had. But it was a part of his past, one that was not easily erased, but mended slowly over time.

The whole table was completely silent, Gaulier avoided Brujon’s gaze and Verde just gaped at the senior musketeer. 

“Did you ever find out?” 

Brujon turned his head to look at the innkeeper, who apparently had listened to the story as well. His eyes were cold, indifferent, his irises almost black. Brujon leaned forward, taking in a deep breath. It has never been an easy subject for him. 

“You mean what happened to him?” he asked. 

The innkeeper nodded, not even the hint of empathy on his face. 

Brujon shook his head. 

“No. He disappeared that day. The man I met in Paris was not the man he used to be. Aramis, to date, doesn’t know whether he was able to escape the fire, if so, I’ve never seen him again.” He swallowed hard and gestured the innkeeper to refill his goblet. The man did as he was told, and the musketeer quickly grabbed the wine and took a deep sip. “It’s probably better that way.”

Another moment of uncomfortable silence, before Verde, the child, raised his voice. 

“I’m sorry for what you had to go through.”

Brujon just grimaced, but gave the child a warm and reassuring smile. “It’s war. We all had to go through it.”

Rissé, apparently very uncomfortable about the current subject, gently nudged Brujon by the shoulder. 

“You said the Garrison had just been rebuilt. I didn’t know it had been destroyed.”

Gaulier snorted doubtfully. 

“Are you serious? The fire could be seen in all of Paris.”

Rissé rolled his eyes. 

“I’m from Nice, in case you’ve forgotten. I joined the regiment ten years ago, so no, I haven’t been here at the time.”

“Grimaud burned the place down,” Brujon explained in a monotone voice. “But as Athos put it, it was nothing but a building burned to the ground. The building was not the garrison.”

Gaulier shook his head in agreement. “No. The musketeers are the garrison. We’ve always been.” 

Brujon forced a smile on his face, comforting the child after the darker story he had just told. 

“Still, it was nice to have a place we could call home. It took the Captain some time, but the place you know as the Garrison today has a lot of work in it. But that’s a different story.”


	4. From the Ashes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Set shortly after S3Ep10. Captain d'Artagnan, Constance, Aramis and the Queen work together to rebuild the garrison, when some old foes interfere and cause trouble.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> May contain some harsher language and some swearing.

__

_Wherever we draw breath, make a stand, save a life, that is the garrison. We are the Garrison.“-Athos, Season 3, Episode 10_

**Paris, 1637**

Constance awoke abruptly and bathed in sweat from a restless sleep. The crackling of the fire and the screams of men trapped in the fire still echoed in her ears, and she shook her head frantically to dispel the images and memory that still plagued her in her dreams. She knew it was stupid and unnessecary, and she also knew that she could now sleep well again, because the threat of Grimaud was stopped just in time, and extremely spectacular in her opinion. But her subconsciousness could not be turned off, as much as she wanted to.

Now she looked up hectically and gazed up into the face of a musketeer cadet, who carefully raised his hand.

"Excuse me, madame. I heard screams and just wanted to check if everything is alright. "

Constance nodded eagerly and made a declining gesture with her hand. „I’m fine." 

The young man bowed his head and turned to leave. She sank back into her pillow and took a deep breath to calm herself, taming the nervous tapping of her heart. Instinctively, she reached to the side where her husband usually spent the night, but her hands grabbed into the void and dug into ragged sheets.  
She sighed and sat up. The morning sun burned over the Parisian roofs through her window and bathed the room in reddish, warm light. D'Artagnan was not there, once again. Ever since Athos had handed the Captaincy over to him, her husband was restless. Not that she herself was completely idle. She spent every spare minute caring for the musketeers and the entire regiment. But d'Artagnan was almost sick of sleep deprivation, and slowly Constance began to worry.

With a final look at the empty side of the bed, Constance finally rose from the bed and dressed quickly, her tousled hair pinned up on her head. As soon as she was out of the door, she almost collided with one of the musketeers who seemed to be heading straight for her.

"Julien! What are you doing here?"

The man looked confused. "Well, I wanted to you, Const…um, to you, Madame."

Constance raised an eyebrow suspiciously. "These are the private chambers of me and the captain." They had moved into a larger building three blocks away from what was once the garrison, for as long as it would take to rebuild it. The abandoned building had been in royal hands, and the Queen Regent had willingly allowed them to use it.

"I ...," Julien stuttered and put on a mischievous grin. "This place is small. But I did not intend ... "

Constance rolled her eyes.

"It’s alright," she interrupted him, putting her hands on her hips. "Speak openly."

He handed her an unopened letter. "That was delivered for you. A message from the Queen Regent. "

Constance breathed out a sigh, surprise written all over her face. "For me? Not for the captain? "

Julien shook his head. "It is addressed to you. But if you see the captain," he continued, pulling another letter out of his pocket. "Minister Aramis gave this to me after my guard duty this morning. For d'Artagnan. "

Constance nodded gratefully and accepted the letter before she turned to hurry down the street. However, she felt Julien's look in her back and she whirled around again, glaring at the young man in amusement.

"Do you not have anything to do, Julien?" she asked, shooing him away before she set off again to rush to d'Artagnan while she broke the seal of the Queen's letter.  
It actually could not have gone any better. Grimaud was defeated, France was in the capable hands of Queen Anne, Aramis could be with his son. In addition, Athos had finally found his luck and peace, and Porthos a chance to prove his skills and defend France.

Only d'Artagnan did not seem too comfortable with his new position. He was not overstrained with his new duties, but he did not seem to have gotten used to his new title and reputation. On the other hand, he accepted the duties with ease, and he faced every little obstacle without hesitation. Everyone had watched in recent years as Athos prepared him for this role. Although Porthos and Aramis had been on Athos's side for longer, nobody ever had ever suspected them in the captain's position one day, including themselves. The only one who had been surprised was d'Artagnan himself.

Constance ran her fingers through her hair as she unfolded the queen's letter. D'Artagnan would need some time. But he had his men’s respect for a long time already.

Her eyes were now flying over the sheet of paper, the familiar, neat handwriting of Queen Anne was unmistakable.

__

_My dear Constance,_  
The Minister and I encountered some obstacles regarding the rebuilding of the garrison. We will do our best to remedy this error, but we ask your presence in the throne room later this morning for more detailed discussion.  
Signed,  
Her majesty, the Queen 

Constance's heart was throbbing nervously. They had been through enough trouble the past few weeks, they really did not want to endure any more. She stuffed the paper back into the bag attached to her belt and turned around corner.

The garrison, or what was left of it, was hard to miss. The road there was littered with the rubble, for they had spent the past few weeks to remove, and people were still busy getting rid of the last remnants. Each musketeer had helped, some of them spending more than ten hours each day working on it. Then, there have been some people the crown, or better said Aramis, had paid, so they would help them. And much to everybody’s surprise, there have also been volunteers, common people living around the corner or on a farm outside of the city. They had arrived just to help the musketeers with the rebuilding of their home. 

She now strode through the archway, the archway under which d'Artagnan had desperately begged Aramis to rescue her, to help her. She had never experienced her husband so desperate. His voice that day was part of her nightmares.

She found d'Artagnan where she had expected him to be. The Musketeer's Captain stood in the blackened courtyard, his arms crossed over his chest. He wore his uniform, but he had not made the effort to button up his jacket properly, nor straighten his hat.

Constance gave a slight smile and stepped behind him. He was so lost in thought that he did not even seem to notice her. Without hesitating, she put a hand on his waist and leaned against his side. She felt him flinch in surprise, but then he greeted her with a kiss on her hair.

"I'm sorry I left so early this morning," d'Artagnan said hesitantly, but Constance shook her head vigorously.

"We've had that before. Don’t apologize. Especially not to me."

D'Artagnan bit his lip. "You‘re right. I do not know why I come here so often. "

Constance snorted in fake annoyance. "Oh, I do."

Her husband raised an amused eyebrow and tilted his head to look her expectantly in the eye.

"It scares you," Constance went on slowly, and she noticed how d'Artagnan tensed. Which meant she was right. "This pile of rubble that we had to gather together stood for your entire past live with the musketeers. For your life with Athos, Aramis, Porthos, me and ... "

"Tréville," added d'Artagnan softly.

"And Tréville." Constance managed a faint smile. "Athos has said it once, but those charred ruins are nothing more than the remains of a building."

"It was my home," d’Artagnan threw in energetically, but he seemed to surrender to Constance's stern gaze immediately.

"We're building something new, d'Artagnan. So that the young men who come here like you all those years ago have a place they can call home. And both Athos as well as Aramis and Porthos are still there to accompany you. And I'm not leaving your side anyway. "

D'Artagnan grimaced and Constance punched him hard against the shoulder. Her husband just gave her a mischievous grin.

"And as for Tréville, you'll make him proud, I'm sure."

D'Artagnan finally forced a sympathetic smile.

"You're right." He stroked her cheek gratefully. "The way you always find the right words, you may want to hold the motivational speeches for the new recruits soon."  
Constance just rolled her eyes.

"Do not get used to it."

Then she remembered the letter and she reached into her pocket to hand it to d'Artagnan .

"From Aramis. It waas delivered to you this morning. "

Frowning, d'Artagnan accepted the letter and set about breaking the seal. "Must be important," he murmured to himself. "I was with him only two days ago."

Constance grunted in agreement, watching her husband's face as he scanned the short lines of the letter.

„I’m called tot he palace later this morning,“ he finally announced, concern coloring his tone. „There was an incident apparently involving the rebuilding of the garrison."

She grabbed the letter from his hand and stuffed it back into his pocket.

"Then we'll probably go together, the Queen has sent me a similar short invitation." D'Artagnan looked up in surprise and she managed a slightly mocking smile. "But before that," she said, pulling him by the hand, "there are still some carts with supplies that need to be unloaded. And even the captain has no excuse to get out of it.“ 

-MMMM-

**Two hours earlier, The Palace**

Aramis shifted uncomfortably on his mattress. It was too soft, too comfortable. And way too big to sleep on it alone. He rolled to one side and rested his head on his elbow, his eyes locked on the gilded candlesticks placed on his bookshelf. 

He almost had to laugh out loud. From the monk who had lived from bread and stew, withdrawn and in simplicity, to the minister of France, whose chambers were now even guarded. He snorted. He needed no protection, and he had tried several times to make it clear in front of the Queen, but she could not be convinced. D’Artagnan had rescued him and offered to let a musketeer take over the guard duty. His friend knew that Aramis had a hard time trusting the palace guards. Besides that, it also helped Aramis to stay in close contact with the garrison and its members, and he also felt as if he retained parts of his former life.

Not that he was not happy now. The weight that had been on his heart the past few years, whenever he had looked into his son's face, was gone. He could never be his father, and he knew that too, but Tréville had not been Aramis's father either, and yet the man had been the closest to what Aramis could call a father. And a man whom Aramis would forever thank for his guidance. 

He could spend time with his son without the fear of losing his head. And in public. He still had to hold back with Anne, but they used every moment of privacy they got. His life was different now, but it was good. But the man he had always been was still there. The one who longed for adventure and action. But he had other responsibilities now, and had to help France with his diplomatic skills.

He had to smile at the thought. Diplomatic skills. Rhetoric and diplomacy were working well together, he'd discovered, and rhetoric had always been his strength. Although Athos had always said that a few words less would have done it sometimes. But if his words could help stop this war, or even diminish the losses as best he could, he preferred to say a few words too much rather than too little.

He finally sat up and looked outside for a moment. He had a clear view of the courtyard of the palace, which was still plunged in complete darkness. The sky, however, slowly began to lighten, from which Aramis concluded that it was very early in the morning. In recent years, it would’ve been the time where he would’ve just left the tavern with Porthos, Athos and d’Artagnan. 

All the stranger were the dull sounds he heard from outside. Hectic, warning voices, and if he was not mistaken, even right outside his door. He reached tot he side and pulled the jacket of his uniform from a chair and threw it over his shoulders before he carefully walked barefoot in the direction of the door, not without grabbing a knife he always kept close. He listened briefly at the door. The two arguing men were definitely on the doorstep of his room and he grabbed his dagger even tighter before jerking open his door.

In response, he received a startled grunt and a very unmanly squeak, and he recognized the musketeer Julien, who was assigned as a guard this night, and a young fellow who Aramis had never seen before.

„Minister!“ Julien said in surprise and wanted to bow his head, but Aramis just lightly smacked the back of his head before he could do so.

„Drop it,“ he ordered surly, still not letting go of his dagger. „Care to explain what’s going on here?“

Julien sighed. „The lad appeared here five minutes ago, saying he had important information for you. I have no idea how he got here in the first place, but…“

„Through the front door?“ the boy tried with a mischievous grin that reminded Aramis of d’Artagnan the first time he met him. 

Julien snorted. „To the private rooms of the Minister? At this time, the palace guards would’ve never let you through.“

„It doesn’t matter,“ Aramis cut in impatiently and eyed the boy intensly. „What is it?“

The boy paled a little bit at the slightly grumpy appearance of France’s minister, but he quickly took a deep breath and looked up to Aramis with big, innocent eyes. 

„You assigned my father to deliver the materials needed for the new musketeer garrison. We brought the materials here on two carts, but...” He stopped and stared at the ground, not able to hide the nervous shaking of his limbs. 

Aramis slowly reached out and put a calming hand on the boy’s shoulder. 

“But what?” he asked softly, not wanting to scare him but also demanding answers.

“We were ambushed. My father needed a physician, I was able to hide. They stole both carts.”

Aramis frowned. “Did you have anything valuable on there?”

The boy shook his head. “Just the materials you ordered. We wanted to deliver them to Captain d’Artagnan of the King’s musketeers in person, but we can’t now, and I don’t know how to get them back. They were at least eight men, all armed, against my father and me.” His breathing quickened as he tried to get all of the information out at once.

“Calm yourself,” Aramis tried to soothe him. “Can you tell me where you were attacked?”

“It was...” but a loud creak interrupted the sentence he was about to say. The huge doors down the hallway swung open and the Queen, accompanied by two palace guards, entered the scene. She looked as graceful as usual, even with the undone hair falling free over her shoulders and the blue, simple dress she wore. She apparently did not have the time to get ready yet, as it was still very early in the morning. 

Aramis and Julien quickly took a bow, and the young boy awkwardly attempted to do so as well. It seemed as if he had no idea who she was. 

“Your majesty,” Aramis greeted her to help the lad, and he saw the young man grew even paler. Aramis wasn’t sure whether he would manage not to faint.   
Queen Anne looked fierce, even without her huge, royal dresses. And it did leave quite an impression. Aramis tried to rescue the boy from his embarrassment. 

“May I ask what leads you here, so early in the morning?” he asked, an innocent smile playing on his lips. 

Anne smiled, her eyes wandering over Aramis, Julien and the boy.

“I was up early because of the King, who doesn’t sleep well these days. And the guards I passed informed me about an argument that erupted in this part of the palace. So I decided to see to it myself.”

“Why don’t you leave it to your ladies to take care of him? You could’ve had gotten some more hours of sleep,” Julien, definitely not a wise man, spoke up. Aramis elbowed him hard, thinking about the hard time the Queen and he himself had when they hadn’t been allowed by Tréville to know about the young King’s whereabouts. He knew that Tréville had meant no harm to him, and that he had only cared about the well-being of the child, but as a father, it had driven Aramis insane, and the Queen had been close to an emotional breakdown.

“He needs his mother, Julien,” the Queen now replied sternly and glared at the musketeer, who quickly lowered his gaze and nodded. “So, what is it?” Simple question, not so simple answer.

“This brave boy here informed me about a robbery. The carts transporting the materials needed for the construction of the garrison have been stolen.”

The Queen’s eyes widened slightly. “Where?” she asked and she addressed the boy directly. The poor lad was as white as snow, and Aramis could see his legs trembling badly.

“R..rue Saint-Antoine, near the Place de Vosges,” he stuttered. 

“Thank you for this information,” she said honestly and raised a smile out of the boy. With new found courage, he then turned towards Aramis again.

“What am I going to tell the Captain?” he asked with a worried tone. “What is Captain d’Artagnan going to do to me when he finds out I let the carts get stolen? He won’t kill me, right?

Aramis had to surpress a laugh and he could see Anne also trying to hide an amused smile.

“I don’t know what you heard about the Captain of the musketeers, but he’s not going to kill you, unless you did something really bad.”

“Like what?” Damn, the boy really did not hold back.

Aramis shrugged and folded his arms in front of his chest. “I don’t know. Threaten his wife, for example.”

“But then Madame d’Artagnan would skin you first, probably,” Julien threw in and Aramis nodded confirmingly. 

The boy looked a little scared, so Aramis put on a reassuring smile. “Don’t worry. You go home to your father and take care of him. I’m going to make sure the carts will be brought back, alright?”

The boy nodded. 

“The men were armed, you said?”

“Yes, Sir. They were trained with sword and pistol, I am sure. But they wore no uniform.”

Aramis nodded. “Alright, thank you. You are dismissed.”

The boy did not need to be told twice, and he hurried to walk away. Halfway to the door, he remembered that he forgot to bow to the Queen and he did so while   
walkling backwards, and he almost collided with the door. 

“We should inform d’Artagnan,” Aramis said once the boy was gone.

Queen Anne nodded. “And I’ll invite Constance to the palace later this day. We should make a plan on how to get those carts back. They are royal property after all.”

The minister nodded. 

“Can I talk to you alone for a minute?” Anne asked, impatience coloring her tone and her eyes nervously twitched towards Julien. 

Aramis nodded again. “Of course. Why don’t you come in?”

“Wait here,” she ordered the palace guards and followed Aramis’ invitation to his office. He closed the door behind her, after exchanging a quick look with Julien.  
Once inside, he pulled her into a close hug, and she buried her face in his shoulder.

“Is he alright?” he whispered in her ear, enjoying how he was able to take in the smell of her hair. She looked up in his face, a little confused.

“Who?” 

“Louis.” 

She closed her eyes briefly. “He has a hard time sleeping the past few days. I don’t know where it comes from.”

“I will try to find out. Perhaps I’ll be able to find out somehow.”

She smiled, and nodded her head, but her mind seemed to be elsewhere.

“Maybe you can consult Constance,” he suggested then as he sat down and prepared the ink for his message to d’Artagnan. She furrowed her brow and he could almost feel her confusion. He lifted his head again to look into her warm eyes. 

“She can find out how to help ou...” He rememberd Julien waiting just outside his door and quickly bit down the word. “...your son.” His hand shook slightly as he grabbed a feather.

She smiled broadly.

“You’re right. Constance always knows what to do.”

-MMMM-

**The Palace, later that day**

D’Artagnan entered the throne room, side by side with Constance. His hands were aching from all the heavy lifting he had done the past couple of hours, and the skin was split on multiple spots, but he would never complain. 

The Queen Regent sat on her throne, the young King was nowhere in sight. As soon as she spotted d’Artagnan and Constance, she rose from her seat and walked down the few steps to greet them. D’Artagnan bowed his head, Constance on the other hand was pulled into a firm hug by the queen. D’Artagnan took a look around. Aramis was nowhere to be seen yet. 

“I am glad you were able to come,” Queen Anne spoke, a soft smile on her lips. “How is everything going at the garrison?”

“Slow,” Constance answered honestly and she sounded tired. 

“It’s a lot of work your majesty,” d’Artagnan added. He knew he did not have to pretend everything was alright in front of the Queen. She may be the Queen, but she was also a gentle woman with a kind heart. “And ever since Porthos left for the front with some of the musketeers, the regiment runs a little low on recruits. Another issue I plan on taking care of soon.”

The Queen nodded, she appreciated the honesty.

“If you need any help with it, please don’t hesitate to ask. I’m always inclined to help.”

“We know that, and we thank you, Anne,” Constance answered with a warm smile. “I am sure things will work out from now on.”

“You mentioned an obstacle occurred concerning the rebuilding of the garrison?” d’Artagnan burst out, his curiosity and impatience getting the better of him. 

The Queen tensed. “That’s right. The carts with materials that should have been delivered to you over the course of this day have been stolen.”

“Stolen?” Constance furrowed her brow. “Why would anyone want to steal two carts full of wood and pillars? It’s not like they were transporting chests of gold or something.”

“Somebody who doesn’t want the gold, but wants to hit the regiment hard,” a voice echoed from the entrance and d’Artagnan turned around to see Aramis coming through the doors, unguarded but dressed in his minister uniform, though he was armed to the teeth.

The minister strode over, and quickly greeted both Constance and d’Artagnan with a warm hug.

“Minister,” d'Artagnan said sarcastically and threatened to bow his head, but Aramis interrupted him. 

“If you just attempt to bow to me, d’Artagnan, I’ll have you arrested.”

“Good morning to you to,” d’Artagnan simply answered, grinning triumphically.

“And who would that person be, who wants to hit the regiment hard?” the Queen asked, getting back to business, and she hurried to Aramis’ side. 

“I spoke to some citizens who claim they witnessed the attack,” Aramis explained. 

“Alone?” the Queen threw in sharply, and d’Artagnan saw how Aramis surpressed the urge to snap back. Instead he put on a large grin. 

“I was a musketeer, Anne. I know how to defend myself. Besides, I met two of d’Artagnan’s newest recruits, so they agreed to accompany me.” 

“What did you find out?” Constance asked.

“They say the same thing the boy this morning told me. About eight men, attacking the boy and his father and stealing the carts.”

“Was anybody able to identify them?”

Aramis nodded. “Not all of them, but a merchant there told me that one of them was seen a lot with Marcheaux before d’Artagnan ... got rid of him.”

D’Artagnan raised an eyebrow. “Red guards?”

The minister nodded. “Yes, and I do belive I know where they are hiding.”

The captain of the musketeers grinned dangerously, a somber expression on his face. He looked determined. “Well, then we should go and get our carts back, don’t you think? We need to rebuild our home, and we cannot wait any longer because some red guards belive they can play some stupid games with us. Your majesty, are you able to lend us a few of your city guards for this mission?”

The Queen did not look convinced, and she looked at d’Artagnan as if she was trying to read his mind.

„The crown already paid for it, Captain. I assure you, the garrison means as much to me as it does to yu.“

D’Artagnan looked a little affronted and tilted his head. „With all respect, your majesty, I doubt that.“

Before the Queen, whose face was a mixture of indignation and amusement, could respond, Aramis stepped in.

“It’s not that easy, d’Artagnan. The city guards are needed, since an ambassador from the Netherlands is arriving this afternoon. Besides, we can take care of it on our own. The three of us, Julien, and I am sure the garrison has another musketeer that can help us.”

“The three of us?” the Queen interjected. 

Aramis nodded. “I am asking for permission to accompany them.”

“You are the Minister of France,” Queen Anne stated, but her protest was weak. She knew where this was going, she knew what Aramis longed for occasionally. He needed this.

“I am also a musketeer,” Aramis said calmly. “I’ll be back for the council’s meeting. I promise. But the garrison was my home as well. I need to do this.”

The Queen hesitated, but then she smiled and nodded. “Very well.” She chuckled. “But don’t let me alone with the council.”

Aramis grinned. “I wouldn’t dream of it.”

-MMMM-

**Rue Saint-Antoine, Paris**

Constance, d’Artagnan, Aramis, Julien and another musketeer were standing in the middle of Rue Saint-Antoine, carefully surveying the place where the ambush had apparently taken place. 

“You guys know we are not exactly inconspicious, right? A secret attack is definitely out of options.” D’Artagnan grinned at his wife for her input. Always ready to point out their stupidities, but in a very loving way. He fell more in love with her every single day he was able to spend with her. 

“We’re not planning on not getting noticed,” Aramis replied, kneeling down to inspect a belt that was lying abandoned on the street. “If they flee, at least we know where they are.”

“We are outnumbered,” Julien threw in. Aramis snorted and Constance and d’Artagnan both had to bite down a laugh. 

“We are five musketeers. The boy said there were eight men. I fought against higher numbers on my day off, Julien,” Aramis muttered, looking a little offended. 

“But you didn’t always go out victorious, remember?” d’Artagnan threw in, a mischievous grin on his face. Aramis raised a questioning eyebrow, and he looked helplessly to Constance, who just shrugged, but looked very amused. “Remember when we were jumped while we were dragging a drunk Athos back to the inn?”

“Which time?” the Minister legitimately wanted to know.

“Calais.”

“Oh, don’t remind me of that. Merely a second of inattentiveness and I had to pay for it with a headache that lasted for a week,” Aramis complained. 

“We all had to, mon ami, but back then, we were four against six, and it ended up with the four of us robbed and unconcscious in an abandoned alley.”

“Julien really doesn’t need to heat that,” Aramis threw in casually, trying to maintain a tough expression. “

Constance laughed. “What, that Athos had a problem with alcohol or that the four of you had been robbed by common thiefs while on a mission for the King?” 

D’Artagnan had to surpress a laugh while looking at Aramis’ offended face.

„Constance, I admire you, but that’s not helping!“ Aramis protested.

“I know enough stories, Minister,” Julien added. “Trust me, none of them are able to dim the glory you four have earned over the years.”

Aramis grinned darkly. “Good. Porthos would be furious.”

D’Artagnan rolled his eyes. “Sure. Porthos.”

“You were saying, d’Artagnan?”

“Oh, nothing, Minister!” d’Artagnan replied and bowed his head ridicously low. He managed to escape Aramis’ hit last second.

“Children!” Constance exclaimed and she sounded so much like Athos it made d’Artagnan question his relationship for a split second. “Can we concentrate on getting those carts back so we can rebuild our home, yes?” 

“Yes, madame,” the four men answered in unison. 

“This building here, yes?” Constance asked and pointed towards a large house, with the access to the garden connected to the street. 

Aramis nodded. 

“Our carts are there. But there are also eight men somewhere who want to make sure we don’t get them back.” 

Suddenly, out of nowhere, a shot echoed through the street, and a bullet wheezed through the air and lodged itself into the ground only inches in front of d’Artagnan’s boots. It came from the gardens they had just talked about. 

All of them pulled out their weapons and hid behind the morbid stone walls of the garden. 

“I think they found us,” Julien called out unnecessarily. 

Constance and Aramis both leaned over and fired with their pistols, and the grunting from the other side assured them their bullets had found their targets. Then, they stormed in with raised rapiers. D’Artagnan knocked out one of them immediately with a heavy punch against the temple, then he got engaged in a duel with a swordsman. He seemed to be very capable with the sword, but it seemed as if he barely tried. It didn’t take ten seconds until d’Artagnan was able to force him to his knees. The man stayed there, but d’Artagnan still aimed his pistol at the man’s head. 

With a quick glance to the side, he noticed the others had easily won their fights as well. He proudly watched as Constance, who he originally had ordered to stay behind him, forced her opponent into the mud. The man was so frightened he let go of his rapier by himself. 

Aramis ended his duel with a heavy kick to his opponent’s torso, and the young man bent over in pain, dropping his sword into the grass. 

Then, there was a moment of silence. The men he had in front of him were nothing more than shadows of their former selves. They wore the clothes of a common criminal, and the arrogance they once showed off so proudly was replaced by weariness.

“So,” d’Artagnan spat. “After everything that has happened, why does the red guard still think it’s a good idea to attack the musketeers?”

„There’s no more red guard. We were soldiers, Captain,“ one of them muttered weakly. „We once fought for King and country, and for something we considered honorable.“

Another man joined in as well.

„And then this traitor Rocefort came, and our life wasn’t the same anymore. Honor became shame, dignity and morals were undermined.“

„Because it served a higher purpose,“ the first one added. „God, we once were part of one of the most respected guards in the country.“ He scowled. „Now we are nothing more than shabby cutthroats.“

D’Artagnan studied them closely, and he exchanged a brief, meaningful glance with Constance.

„Do with us what you want,“ one man declared. It was the one kneeling in the dirt in front of Aramis, the marksman’s pistol aimed at his head. „I will not fight you anymore. I had to kil honorable men for long enough. I’d rather rot in a cell for the rest of my life before I raise my sword against you.“

„You effeminate cowards!“ one of them suddenly yelled. „We followed orders! We defended the honor of those who have the power in this country!“

„And where did it lead us?“ the man in front of d’Artagnan hissed back. „Rochefort’s intrusion and his intrigue almost cost the queen her life. His attempt to destroy France’s succession…“ D’Artagnan noticed Aramis tense visibly at his side. „…would’ve thrown France into a civil war! Same thing with Feron and whoever or whatever he worked for. But hey, main thing is we followed their honorable orders!“ His voice dripped with sarcasm and he spit on the ground in front of the other man’s feet. „Here. That’s what’s left of your honor.“

„You ungrateful idiots!“ the other one screamed. „We could’ve restored our reputation together. And now you lick the boots of the man who killed Marcheaux? You bastards!“

„Just shut up!“ Constance hissed at him.

„Do not tell me what I have to do, _woman_!“ he scoffed, and both d’Artagnan and Aramis made a step forward to make him pay for his disrespect, but Constance was faster. She backhanded him hard across the face. The force of the impact threw the man ungracefully backwards and he landed in the dirt with a soft thud. He moaned and rubbed his aching face.

„And you’d be wise to know when you lost, _man!_ “ Constance replied and the look she gave the surrounding men silenced them immediately.

But the man scrambled to his feet and wiped a trickle of blood from his face with the back of his hand.

„Wenches like you are lucky that you can hide behind the great Captain of the muskteers!“ he growled. „Lifting your skirts for him was probably the smartest thing you’ve done in your life, bitch!“

D’Artagnan could hear the other men gasp in shock, and he heard the clang of metal as Aramis drew his sword. He felt an unruly rage rising in him, and everything inside of him screamed to relieve the man of his teeth or even his head, but he managed to control himself.

Because he knew the prick had messed with the wrong woman. In a single, fluid motion, Constance had already pulled her pistol from her belt and she leveled the gun at the bigmouthed idiot.

"And those words," Aramis mumbled from the sideline, straightening his hat, "were probably the stupidest thing you've ever done in your life."

The idiot managed a grin, revealing his bloodstained teeth, and he looked sharply at d'Artagnan.

"You let women do your dirty work? If I have to die, then handle your sword yourself, Captain. "

Constance approached with a pistol in her hand, a dangerous glint in her eyes.

"Why does everyone always think it's the men's job to kill another man?" She asked with an innocent smile on her lips. Then her features became hard. "Ignorant men like you have not understood until now that the bullet fired by a woman kills you just as good as a captain's."

Her victim sneered. "The difference is," he said, and d'Artagnan's urge to strangle this man was growing stronger. "Is that your husband is probably better at aiming. Put the weapon down, before you hurt yourself."

Constance laughed dryly. "Do you want to put that to the test?" She asked.

"Oh, try it if you have the guts to do so. Then you have just another murder to answer for. But if I get out of here, you better make sure to watch your back every second. You don’t want to know what men like me do to women like you. Once I am done with you, you’ll wish you had never met me.”

D’Artagnan pulled his own sword and made a step forward, but Constance handled the situation her own way. 

“You don’t know women like me,” she growled and without further hesitation, she fired. The bullet pierced through the man’s shoulder, ripped through muscle and flesh, and he dropped to the ground immediately with an agonized scream, clutching his shoulder in surprise. 

D’Artagnan shot Aramis a look as if to say ‘go, have a look’, and the Minister complied carefully. He knelt down next to the man and roughly turned him over.

“Wow, what a shot, Constance,” Aramis commented and he whistled as he had a look to the wound. “Didn’t hit anything vital. He’ll survive it, but I doubt that he will question your shooting abilities again.” Aramis stopped for a second, probing the wound and eliciting a scream out of the wounded man. “At least you’d be a wise man to do so,” he growled in his direction.

Constance lowered her weapon. 

“If I’d wanted to kill him, I would’ve done it.” She walked past d’Artagnan, but he gently grabbed her by the waist, looking softly into her eyes. 

“Why didn’t you?”

She sighed, a sad expression on her face, and her eyes suddenly a bit teary. “We are at war. It demands enough sacrifices. I don’t have to add another unnecessary death”

D’Artagnan nodded and placed a soft kiss on her forehead. “I’m proud of you,” he murmured that only Constance was able to hear it. Then, he turned back towards the man who was sitting on the ground in front of him.

“Where were we? I apologize for what happened to your friend over there, but he left us no choice.”

The man just shrugged.

„Gaston deserved it. He was an asshole. The only one who tolerated him war Marcheaux.“

„And yet you followed him,“ Aramis rightfully pointed out. 

“We had nothing left, nothing but our families,” the man explained carefully. “Gaston offered us money if we helped him. I had no grudge against the Musketeers, but my desire to allow my wife and child a roof over their heads was greater than my dignity.”

“Understandable,” Constance threw in softly.

“Over the past years, there have been many, many disputes between the musketeers and the red guards. And now you are going to pretend it never happened?” Julien piped up.

“I’m not. There were as many troublemakers among the red guards as they were among the musketeers. I can merely assure you that I, as well as my friends here, Gaston excluded, never longed for a fight, nor did we follow our orders to steal from you or to fight you gladly. Whether you believe it or not is not within my power.”

D’Artagnan’s eyes met Aramis’. Thanks to their silent communication, they came to an agreement, one that d’Artagnan would give a try and Aramis would watch with scepticism. It was his job to build a new garrison, and to find the right men for the job. 

“What is your name?” 

“Francois,” the man murmured. 

“I will let you live, Francois” d’Artagnan announced. Constance and Aramis watched with content expressions on their faces, but Julien and the other musketeer looked a little skeptic. “You’d be wise not to violently interfere with the musketeer businesses again. But if you ever wish to restore your honor, and to fight for the right thing, be sure to know that the musketeer garrison is always looking for capable, respectful recruits.”

“A red guard as a musketeer?” Julien hissed into his Captain’s ear. D’Artagnan granted him a murderous look. 

“Right now, he is a man who wants to serve the country. And a man who wants to restore his honor, and who wants to take care of his family. I know an evil man when I see one, Julien.” The captain’s tone tolerated no protest. 

Francois looked up into the Captain’s eyes, surprise written all over his face.

“Why would you want to include me in your regiment? I was a red guard. I followed orders that would’ve led to France’s downfall if the musketeers wouldn’t have saved it. Why would you want somebody like me?”

Constance looked down at the man, and she held out a hand. 

“We’re giving you the chance to make things right again.”

D’Artagnan noticed Aramis approaching again, and the Minister lined up next to d’Artagnan, looking pitiful at the man who was on his knees, looking miserable.

“If you swear to cut out what happened once, and you need to promise to look at the other musketeers as your brothers. ‘cause that’s what we are. A brotherhood of men, standing up for what is right, to protect France from those who’d harm it.”

Francois’ eyes rested on Aramis, who spoke up again as well, the minister’s eyes fixed on the silvery crucifix hanging from the man’s neck.

“Do you swear in front of God to stand side by side with good men you fought once, to value the musketeers and everything they stand for, and to honor and protect the man standing by your side? All for one, one for all?”

Francois was holding back the tears in his eyes, and it assured d’Artagnan that he had made the right decision.

“By what’s left of my honor, I swear.”

-MMMM-

**The tavern ‘le bouclier rouillé’, Paris, 1656**

„I didn’t know that Francois was a red guard once!“ Rissé exclaimed, and he seemed seriously surprised. 

“He turned out to be one of the finest warriors the garrison had to offer,” Gaulier explained to his son, who was listening wide-eyed to everything he was told. 

“Where is he now?” Verde asked, and looked around the table as if Francois could magically appear out of nowhere. 

Brujon smiled. “The Queen appointed him a General in 1645, and he has been fighting at the front ever since. I am proud to be able to call him my brother. D’Artagnan made the right decision.”

“But...but he was a red guard!” Verde said in shock, apparently not able to grasp what he has just been told. 

“He was a broken man who wanted to make up for his sins. He is a loyal brother and a fine musketeer,” Gaulier scolded his on sharply. 

“Anyway,” Brujon cut it. “I was away with Porthos, but when I got back to Paris for the first time, the Garrison they had built was truly impressive. And it wasn’t even half of what you know today as the garrison. Back then, we only had a main house with the Captain’s office, a kitchen and the stables. But it was enough, for us. It was ours. And the Captain and Constance were proud too.”

“Which reminds me of one thing,” Rissé suddenly said and looked up from his mug. “Anyone knows how late it is? The Captain said something about all of us being ready at midnight, right?”

Brujon nodded. 

“Yes, but when I got here, it was almost ten. We still have some time.”

“Doesn’t anybody here think it’s a little weird?” Gaulier burst out out of nowhere.

“Hm?” Brujon did not know what he meant.

“That Porthos, Athos, and Aramis all visit today, at such a late hour?” Rissé had lowered his voice, his eyes scanning the area hectically. 

“We all know that the Captain has been holding something back. But he will tell us when it’s time,” Brujon admonished. “We just have to wait until he is ready.”


	5. A Broken Vow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The musketeers are on a mission to restore the order in Chinon, where the Comte is fighting against his own people. Choosing a side turns out to be more difficult than they anticipated.

__

_“If I am to choose between one evil and another, I’d rather not choose at all. – Andrzej Sapkowski, ‘The last wish’_

**Le bouclier rouillé, Paris, 1656**

“It always sounds like things were going better after the last King’s reign,” Verde observed shyly. “Was Louis the thirteenth’s reign so bad?”

Gaulier huffed, and Rissé just shook his head slightly.

“Depends on who you ask,” Brujon responded, staring at the wine in his goblet. “The opinions differ very much from one another. Not easy asking that someone who lived in Paris during the first years of the war.”

“Hunger,” Gaulier huffed. “Hunger and misery, wherever you looked.”

Brujon nodded sadly, and focused back on the boy. “The time before that wasn’t much easier either. The city was kept in check, but the nobility controlled the rest of the country for the crown. In return, the King put them under his protection. Which also meant under our protection.” 

Rissé’s eyes shot up and met the older musketeer. 

“You’re talking about the whole affair with the Comte Dechaux aren’t you?”

“The Comte de what?” Verde retorted immediately and elicited a smile out of the senior musketeer.

“Dechaux. Quite a famous story, that one. Though also the reason for a lot of scepticism concerning the duties of the musketeers,” Rissé informed him. 

“Why don’t you just tell him?” Gaulier sighed, casting a demanding glance at Brujon.

Brujon shrugged, took a deep sip from his wine before his eyes wandered to the child again, who looked at him with big, expecting eyes.

“Don’t get me wrong. Louis the thirteenth was a good man, in his own way. Not an easy man, not the smartest when it came to strategy or basically anything outside the palace. But I think deep inside, he had a kind heart, one that turned bitter towards the end. But his noblemen, who were ruling the countryside for him, they are a different story.”

Verde shifted uncomfortably on his father’s lap, shyly considering whether he could ask Brujon directly.

“Like this Comte Dechaux?”

Brujon nodded. “D’Artagnan always told me that was the first time he really had to question whether he was doing the right thing.”

“Why?”

“They were circled by unnecessary violence there. Both parties acting out of self-preservation and greed. But as musketeers, they had to side with one.” 

“With who?” Verde asked in confusion. 

“The King. As musketeer’s, we are soldiers, we know our duty. And they did theirs, the best they could. But things always changed when it turned personal for them.”

-MMMM-

**Chinon, France, 1632**

The noise was unbearable. The shouting and the constant firing of pistols made it impossible to communicate normally, even though the castle's thick stone walls managed to quell everything a bit.

It had all started a few days ago. Athos, Porthos, Aramis and d'Artagnan had been sent to Chinon to offer royal support to the local Comte Dechaux. All they had known at the time was that he had to deal with rebellious farmers who had violently attacked him and his people, what exactly had happened, they did not know. Once they had arrived, they had learned that Comte Dechaux, a conceited and arrogant man, had managed to capture Rochure, the former stable master of the family Dechaux and apparently one of the leaders of the revolt. Which had sparked the small revolution anew. 

Athos and the others had talked to Dechaux and insisted that he would try a somewhat peaceful solution, but the Comte did not want to listen. He did not value the opinion of the musketeers. He thought of them as royal property, and as something he claimed he deserved to use as one of the King’s representatives. 

It had been difficult to find out what the whole thing was about. Dechaux had stated that those farmers started a revolution out of nowhere, said that he always took care of them and treated them fairly. Athos had known that that may not be a lie, but it definitely wasn’t the truth either. D’Artagnan, eager to find out the truth as usual, offered to talk to the opponents, trying to find out the cause of this mayhem and negotiate a peaceful solution. Meanwhile, Comte Dechaux had closed the gates of his castle, locking Athos, Porthos and Aramis in it with him, saying he would sit this out if he had to. 

So now they were waiting inside the castle’s walls, trying to ignore the constant screaming and yelling from outside, waiting for d’Artagnan’s safe return. Porthos was leaning against the walls, his eyes burning holes in the ground, arms folded in front of his chest. Athos sat on a bench opposite of Comte Dechaux, his elbows resting on the table. He was brooding in silent about the current situation. Aramis was pacing restlessly, for at least an hour now. It was driving Athos insane. 

“For God’s sake ‘mis, would you please sit down?” Porthos suggested, looking up to see Aramis coming to a halt briefly. 

“No,” the marksman replied. “He should’ve been back by now. He’s been gone for five hours.”

“They are brutal men,” Dechaux commented from his place at the table. “I doubt your comrade will return soon.”

Aramis, in a moment of weakness, failed to control his emotions and he leapt towards the table in what looked like an attempt to attack the Comte, but Athos rose from the bench violently and put a calming hand on Aramis’ chest, keeping him at distance. 

“It all would be a lot easier if you would just tell us why they are that angry at you,” Aramis shouted over Athos’ shoulder at the Comte. The older man stood up dangerously slow, his cold, grey eyes resting on Aramis. 

“You question my honesty?” he asked. 

“Yes,” Porthos stated bluntly and joined them as well. “Forgive me, Sire, but I have to doubt your honesty when nothing makes sense here. If you were all that generous and kind to your people, they would not have marched towards your castle, armed with pistols, rapiers and pitchforks!”

“Forgive my brothers, it’s been a tiring day,” Athos intervened, trying to calm the spirits. He shot the Comte an apologetic look. “But I agree that we need more information, as long as we are waiting on our fourth man to return.”

“The King sent you here to protect me,” Dechaux replied coldly, an arrogant expression all over his face. He was very sure of himself.

“No,” Athos dead-panned, still busy with keeping Aramis in check with one hand. “The King sent us here to restore the order. And we’ll do what’s necessary. So you better tell me where you keep Rochure, so we can interrogate him.”

“Or what?”

“You really don’t want to know.”

The Comte made a derogatory gesture. “Fine. The cellar, underneath the kitchen.”

Athos tipped his hat. “Thank you kindly.”

Dechaux scowled. “Just get out of my eyes before I decide I don’t need you anymore.”

Athos cast a warning glance at Porthos this time, who usually had a hard time biting his tongue, and hurried to get his friends out of the room and towards the kitchen. The guard waiting on top of the small staircase apparently tried to stop them, but Porthos left hook rendered him unconscious before a single word escaped his mouth.

“That was not necessary,” Athos commented dryly.

Porthos grunted. “But it felt damn good.” 

Athos could hear Aramis chuckle behind him, and together, they made their way down the staircase and towards the small cellar. Damped shouts could be heard from behind the corner, and as soon as they passed through the narrow and dirty tunnel, they arrived at a small room, where a man was tied to a chair and guarded by one of Dechaux’ men. 

“You shouldn’t be down he...,” the guard started but Porthos just growled. 

“Don’t test me. We wish to speak to the prisoner, and that’s what we are going to do now. I’d advice you not to stand in my way.”

The guard just raised his hands in defeat and stepped back, gesturing them to go ahead. The prisoner’s head was hanging low, dark strands of curly hair hiding his face, his whole body trembling due to the coldness down here. It was Aramis who approached first. He knelt down on the floor next to the man, lifting his head with one hand. 

“Your name is Rochure?” Aramis started with simple yes or no questions, careful, as he did not know what kind of a man he had in front of him. A long pause, and a shuddering breath followed, until he received a rasped ‘yes’ as an answer.

Aramis nodded. “You were the Comte’s stable master?”

A nod.

“Good.” Aramis tilted his own head, forcing the prisoner to look at him. “Rochure, my name is Aramis. I’m here with Athos and Porthos, from the King’s musketeers.”  
The reaction was nothing they were prepared for. The man’s head shot up and he tried to spit into Aramis’ face. The marksman’s reflexes saved him from the humiliation and he only had to wipe it off his pauldron. 

“Okay, I get it,” Aramis continued unimpressed and in a disgustingly soothing voice. “Everybody’s a little emotional, the situation is very tense. I am a patient man, but...” A snort from Porthos interrupted the sentence he was about to say. 

“You, patient? Your pacing the last hour spoke of something different.”

Aramis whirled around, and stared at Porthos with fake annoyance. “Porthos, please. I’m having a conversation over here.”

“A very one-sided one,” Athos murmured under his breath, but Aramis ignored him and turned back towards Rochure.

“As I was saying,” he said with a firm voice and grabbed the prisoner’s chin tightly, forcing his head up. “My friend is with your leader and has not returned yet. Even my patience has its limits. But we want to know the truth and we were hoping you could enlighten us.”

“You’re not going to believe me anyway,” Rochure shot back immediately, fury in his eyes as he glared at Aramis. “All you musketeer’s do is lick the King’s boots and slaughter everybody that doesn’t agree with the injustice the nobility spreads out here.”

Aramis sighed. “The lapse of manners around here really disappoints me.” He shrugged. “Very well, who wants to have a go? Athos?” 

The swordsman looked up in surprise, but he knew exactly what Aramis was referring to. The corners of his mouth twitched as he suppressed a grin and he took off his gloves and handed them over to Porthos, before he unbuttoned his leathern doublet. 

Rochure raised an eyebrow. “What, want to give me a private show? Maybe your friends should leave then.”

Athos briefly looked up as he took off his doublet and threw it on the ground, before he rolled up the sleeves of the brown linen shirt he wore underneath. His face was hard as stone. 

“No. I just prefer not to get blood on my uniform if I can avoid it.” Without waiting for another invite, he landed a hard punch against the man’s cheek, and he could feel the teeth being knocked out of their roots. Aramis, being the helpful friend he was, steadied the chair, so the impact of Athos’ attacks would not throw the prisoner over. 

“I want to know the reason for the revolt, and I want to know the possible fate of my comrade. Don’t make me ask twice,” Athos growled, holding the man upright by the collar. 

“Wow, alright, no need for violence,” Rochure answered pretentiously and he turned his head to the side to spit out the blood as well as a tooth that had gathered in his mouth.

Porthos, who leaned against the wall, watching the whole scene, arched an eyebrow. 

“I am afraid we don’t know many limits when it comes to the sake of one of ours. One more quality of the bootlicking and slaughtering brotherhood of musketeers.” His voice dripped with sarcasm. 

“What did the Comte tell you?” Rochure asked sourly, his gaze wandering over the three musketeers. 

Aramis grimaced. “Well, that he took care of his people, but had a personal dispute with the family of a man called Mathieu, which kind of lead to this....revolution.”

Rochure jerked in his chair, and Athos already pulled his fist backwards to launch another attack. But to everybody’s surprise, he talked. 

“That’s one way to put it. He slaughtered Mathieu’s family. His wife and son were executed for treason, without any evidence, and when I confronted the Comte about this, he just told me that I should remember my place and my social status. Mathieu gathered the farmers around him, and we started to arm ourselves. Next time Dechaux’s men came to collect the taxes, we defended ourselves.”

“Successfully?” Aramis threw in.

Rochure grimaced. “Would I be here if not?”

Aramis shrugged and gestured the prisoner to continue. 

“That’s kind of where it all started. For details, you should ask my dearest Comte himself.”

Athos sighed. “I get it so far, but there is one thing that I cannot grasp, something that doesn’t make sense to me.” 

“And what would that be?” Rochure asked, honest curiosity written all over his face.

“The number of people who are marching with you. They all claim that the Comte burned down their homes, and that they want him to pay for it.”

Rochure stared at him as if he did not understand the question. “How come that so many people march with you?” Aramis questioned, his tone growing more and more impatient. 

“As you said,” Rochure said. “Dechaux burned down their homes. They have every right to demand justice.” But Athos noticed how he avoided his gaze, trying to maintain a straight face so his lie would not be too obvious. 

“You see,” Athos said, his voice all calm and composed. “I now how much the nobility depends on the income of their farmers and villagers. To burn down their houses could mean a financial ruin for them. Dechaux claims he did not harm anyone else, and he may be an arrogant bastard, but I don’t think he was lying.”

“I don’t give a damn about what you think, musketeer,” the prisoner answered with a low voice and Athos replied with a well-placed right hook and backed away, not in the mood to interrogate any longer. The man had said it all. 

“That was you, wasn’t it?” Aramis said and started pacing again. Porthos sighed from his place by the wall. 

“Beg your pardon?” Rochure replied.

“You burned down their houses, so that you’d have more men against Dechaux. You falsely accused the Comte so you could build your own little army.”

“I’m not going to say anything.” Rochure’s jaws were tightly clenched, his eyes steered towards the dirty ground again. 

“You don’t have to,” Porthos threw in. “You just gave yourself away.” He turned towards Athos and Aramis. “We should really find out where...”

A loud rumbling noise interrupted him and one of the Comte’s guards entered the cellar, panting and wheezing. “Which one of you is Athos?” He held out a letter he clutched in his hands. 

Athos made a step forward and snatched the letter out of the boy’s hands. 

“What is this?” he asked sharply. 

“This was submitted for you. From Mathieu,” the boy gasped.

Athos ripped the letter open and his eyes flew over the ashen piece of paper, soaking in every word written on there. Once he was finished, his hand fell to his side, the letter uselessly tangling between his fingers, his face blank.

“What is it?” Aramis wanted to know and grabbed the letter, quickly checking what made Athos react that way. “Merde,” the marksman cursed under his breath and shot his friends a worried look. 

“It’s d’Artagnan,” he explained to Porthos. “Mathieu has him, and wants to trade him against Rochure.” 

Porthos cursed and ran a hand over his head. “That complicates things.”

“What do you suggest?” Aramis asked Athos. The older man carefully made a step towards the prisoner, digging a hand into his hair and forcing him to look to the ceiling. 

“I say we exchange them. So that this idiot is out of my eyes and d’Artagnan returns safe and sound.”

Aramis hesitated. “Don’t get me wrong, I agree completely, but shouldn’t we discuss this with Comte Dechaux?”

Athos hissed a simple “No!”, untied the prisoner and hauled him to his feet, holding him upright with his right arm. Porthos appeared on Rochure’s other side and secured him. Athos quickly caught his doublet Aramis threw to him, and he quickly put his arms through the sleeves, not bothering to button it. They did not have any time to waste anyway. 

Aramis ran up the staircase into the kitchen, Porthos and Athos following with Rochure closely behind. Athos did not waste a second thinking about not doing that exchange. There was no way he could get out of this castle unnoticed, and besides, Rochure was no longer needed here. When he was gone, the Comte would lose his hostage. Which, on the other hand, would maybe calm the raging crowd outside and buy them some time to think about a peaceful solution. With d’Artagnan. 

The three of them and their prisoner made their way towards the courtyard and the huge gates of the castle. The riot outside of the stone walls seemed to have grown even louder. Luckily, neither Comte Dechaux nor his son were here to witness what Athos was going to do now. 

He lifted his head to yell at one of the guards standing on top of the walls. 

“Is Mathieu out there?” he shouted, and he received a confirming nod. 

“Aye, Monsieur. Together with the missing comrade of yours.”

Athos maintained his usual, indifferent expression and gave a brief nod. “Open the gates.”

No question followed, no doubtful inputs. The guard just did as he was told, and Athos was relieved he did not had to fight over every single instruction he gave today. 

“Be prepared for a fight,” Aramis murmured, drawing his pistols from his belt. 

“I thought this was supposed to be a peaceful prisoner’s exchange?” Porthos replied, but he too did prepare his sword. 

“There is nothing as dangerous as an angry mob,” Aramis hissed, worry colouring his tone. “We have to be prepared for everything.”

“In combat, those farmers should not be a match to us,” Athos stated calmly, which elicited a laugh out of Rochure. 

“Keep telling that to yourself, musketeers. For protecting Comte Dechaux you are as guilty as he is.”

Aramis shrugged it off. “Really?” he said and flashed a sarcastic smile. “I’m not the one burning down my neighbour’s houses.”

“You shut your...,” Rochure tried, but Athos threw an arm around his neck and forced silence upon him.

“Quiet now!” he hissed into the prisoners ears as the castle’s gates slowly opened. It was only a matter of time until the comte was notified. 

Ten of the Comte’s guards lined up behind the musketeers immediately, preparing their muskets in case everything got out of hand. The gates revealed the angry crowd, yelling insults and throwing rocks against the stone walls, some of them armed with rusty rapiers, pistols or even pitchforks. But they also heard screams of despair, of people begging Dechaux to open the gates for them, to rescue them as they tried to escape the chaos Mathieu’s men left behind. They almost got drowned under the angry mob, but it was there, and Athos was sure the guards in the castle heard that too. 

But as the gates opened, the wild crowd suddenly turned deadly silent very quickly. Athos held up the letter high enough so everybody could see what he was about to do. The crowd parted and revealed a farmer, probably in his late forties, wearing a leathern armor and multiple daggers attached to a belt around his waist. D’Artagnan stood next to him, looking seriously pissed, hands bound behind his back. The young musketeer exchanged a quick look with Athos, who now made his way over to the crowd and to Mathieu, Aramis and Porthos following closely behind him, keeping Rochure in check between them. 

They came to a stop in front of the leader and the captured musketeer, mustering each other with scepticism. 

“You must be Athos,” Mathieu declared and laid a hand on d’Artagnan’s shoulder. The Gascon looked very uncomfortable. 

“The one and only,” Athos retorted dryly, his tone missing any kind of patience. 

“We’re going to make it quick. Hand Rochure over, and you can have your man back.” 

Aramis, to Athos’ right, shook his head and Porthos grunted in refusal. 

“D’Artagnan first,” Porthos ordered and forced a fake smile on his face. “This is not negotiable.” 

Mathieu threw his head back and almost hit d’Artagnan in the face. “So you can shoot us as soon as we handed your musketeer over? No.”

Athos growled dauntingly and was about to snap back, but Aramis was faster. 

“We are musketeers of the King. You can think about us whatever you want, but we are honourable men. You have our word that Rochure will be released the moment we get d’Artagnan back.”

“Your word?” Mathieu repeated slowly, rethinking those words in his head. And then he nodded. “Very well. Come on, move, boy.”

He roughly shoved d’Artagnan towards Athos and the young musketeer huffed before he stumbled to Athos’ side. Athos turned to Porthos and nodded, and he cut the ropes around Rochure’s wrists loose and pushed him to Mathieu. The leader of the revolt had a weird expression on his face, something that reminded Athos of a snake right before it killed its prey. A queasy feeling settled in his stomach. This had been a mistake, and they had all known this, but their worry for d’Artagnan had blinded their judgment. 

“Thanks for your honesty, musketeers,” Mathieu sneered. “But I am afraid to tell you that being honourable only gets you killed.” He gave a signal with his hand and suddenly, the angry farmers around them lifted their weapons again, aiming at the musketeers. 

“We gave you our word!” Aramis hissed, and he lifted his pistol as well, aiming it at the man who was closest to him. 

Mathieu raised an eyebrow. “You did. But I never gave you mine." 

Another signal with his hand, and chaos erupted around them. The angry farmers jumped towards the four musketeers, who were helplessly outnumbered, but far more experienced with weapons. 

“Don’t make me shoot you!” Athos heard Aramis plead as he was attacked from multiple sides, and eventually, the swordsman heard Aramis use the pistol, but the marksman had aimed for an arm or anything else that would not be life-threatening. To his left, d’Artagnan was attacked by three men at once. The farmers wielded their weapons like billets, without strategy and without agility. Athos parried a sword strike with ease and managed to put the attacker out of action quickly, without killing him. 

“Athos!” The scream echoed from the castle’s walls and Athos turned his head and saw the head of the Comte’s guards standing on the stone walls, waving at him. “Come back, now!”

Athos turned around again, just in time to avoid being stabbed in the shoulder. 

“Back to the castle!” he shouted loud enough that his friends could hear him. Aramis complied at once, walking backwards while still fighting off as many as he could. Porthos was busy knocking out one farmer with a heavy hit against the face, but Athos could see that Porthos did not want to do that. But right now, it was either that or be killed.

D’Artagnan had a hard time getting out of his fight, and Athos, seeing the necessity to get out of here at once, grabbed the young man by the shoulder and used his whole body weight to force him backwards. D’Artagnan shouted something incomprehensible, but Athos soon learned what it was. He had not seen the boy lashing out with the pitchfork, as he had been too busy getting d’Artagnan out of the line of fire. The Gascon had managed to pull Athos back, but the rusty and sharp metal of the farmer’s tool caught Athos in his unprotected side and slashed at least two sharp gashes into his flesh, tearing the bottom of the shirt in the process. He stumbled and almost fell backwards, his hand darting towards the wound immediately, his face distorted with anger and pain.

He heard d’Artagnan yell something again, and suddenly Porthos’ unmistakable big hands were on his arms and shoulders, half dragging, half guiding Athos back towards the castle. As soon as they were inside, the gates were closed, just in time to keep the raging crowd outside of the walls. Athos escaped Porthos’ firm hold and leaned against the wall, taking in deep breaths to calm himself as the adrenaline in his veins was slowly wearing off. 

“What the hell was that about?” The loud voice of Comte Dechaux. It had been a matter of time until he would appear. He walked up to Athos, and slammed the musketeer against the wall, holding him there with his right forearm. “What were you thinking?”

Aramis and d’Artagnan appeared out of nowhere and separated the two men. Athos found himself subconsciously clinging onto d’Artagnan’s sleeve, while Aramis was keeping the Comte at bay. 

“We did what was necessary to calm the spirits!” Aramis growled, and did not loosen the grip he had around the Baron’s arm. “Since you were busy with doing absolutely nothing, we had to take the matter to our own hands.”

“And you lost my only hostage!” the Comte yelled in his fury, his face turning more and more red. 

“Yes, and got rid of theirs!” Porthos countered and pointed at d’Artagnan. “The situation will calm a bit soon.”

The Comte laughed a hysterical, derisive laugh. “Does that sound like peace for you out there?” 

Now it was d’Artagnan’s turn to speak and instinctively, he let go of Athos, who lost his balance for a split second and bent over, his arm wrapped around his abdomen. Porthos was there to steady him. 

D’Artagnan straightened up, and looked so fierce it was easy to forget he got his commission less than a year ago. 

“There are people out there who are on your side!” he declared. He was fuming with anger. “They are begging you to let them in, and you very well have the possibility to do so. Why don’t you let them in?”

“Spies!” the Comte hissed. “Spies everywhere, all plotting my demise and the one of my family.”

“You’re a liar!” d’Artagnan replied angrily. “Apart from the sword-wielding angry mob out there, you still have innocent people out there, who you vowed to protect once. Now you cannot even protect them from their own neighbours, because you are too proud and you are locking yourself in your precious castle.”

“Mathieu would get in!” Dechaux answered, his eyes wide open. “And that would mean my death.”

“Why don’t your guards go out there and get the innocent civilians in?” Aramis threw in. “You have enough guards to do so.”

“I don’t have to do anything!” the Comte growled and turned on the heel, heading towards his main hall. “Not after you musketeers ruined everything!”

And with that, he just left, leaving the four musketeers alone in the yard. 

Athos groaned, his hand clutching his bloodied side, blood seeping through his fingers as he tried to cover the burning wound. 

“Aramis,” d’Artagnan simply stated as he realized the state Athos was in, and the marksman looked up, until his gaze landed on Athos wound. 

“Shit,” he commented and hurried over to Athos, slapping his hands away so he could examine the wound. Athos slid down the wall and landed on the ground, as he had no intention to hide his pain from his friends. To accept help was a necessity for him, because the sooner his wound was taken care of, the sooner he could be at full strength again and be useful. 

“But you had to worry about your doublet, right? With it, this could’ve been avoided,” Aramis murmured dryly as he ripped the shirt at the side so he could see better. He was clearly referring to the jacket Athos had left unbuttoned after he had hurried to get the prisoner’s exchange done. 

Athos just growled. “That’s not helping, Aramis,” he hissed and squeezed his eyes shut as Aramis mercilessly touched the sliced skin. 

“I know,” his friend just said and caught the flask d’Artagnan handed him and poured the liquor over Athos’ wound. The swordsman grunted in pain. “Two large gashes, the third one is just superficial.” Athos lay there as calm as possible, knowing he would just have to let Aramis do the work.

“Ironic,” Aramis continued his babbling as he cleaned the gashes and tried to hold Athos still. “All these years in combat, and you are struck down by a boy with a pitchfork.” He shook his head. 

“Again,” Athos panted, his hands forming claws and digging into Aramis’ upper arm. “You’re really not helping.”

Aramis grimaced. “Just trying to cheer you up.”

Athos growled. “You’re not.”

The marksman shrugged. “Should’ve known it would be hopeless with you.” He looked up, and his eyes met Athos’. Suddenly, his friend had turned all serious again.   
“Well, good news is, you’re not going to die.” 

“That much I figured,” Athos retorted in annoyance. 

“But,” Aramis cut in before Athos could continue, “this still is a serious wound. If the Comte doesn’t have anyone to help us, you need to return to Paris as soon as possible.”

Athos would usually argue that he was fine, and that he was fit to use a sword, but he also knew that Aramis was the group’s medic for a reason. He would not overreact over such a thing, and he would tolerate no protest. Porthos and d’Artagnan would back him up on this without hesitation.

“I cannot believe he leaves his people out there in the danger,” d’Artagnan declared, casting a worried look towards the huge gates. 

Athos wordlessly held out a hand, and Aramis understood and pulled the musketeer to his feet, though he had to bite down a grunt of pain. Aramis let go of him and Athos leaned against the wall, clutching the hilt of his sword for support.

“We don’t have to like it,” Athos said. “But we have to do as he says. And we cannot risk letting Mathieu in.”

Porthos shook his head. “Mathieu would murder him without hesitation.”

“Well, but he leaves his own people to die out there in the riot!” d’Artagnan stated, fury glistening in his eyes. “How can we still protect him?”

“He is under the King’s protection,” Athos stated matter-of-factly. “It’s our duty to protect him. No matter how much his opinion differs from ours.”

“Why don’t you name it, Athos?” d’Artagnan retorted, his voice very tense. “What he refuses to do, in the name of his family, it’s just evil. He breaks a vow.”

Athos weakly raised an eyebrow, his pale face shining with something that resembled morbid amusement. “Mathieu burned down houses and murdered innocent people for his cause.”

“It doesn’t matter!” d’Artagnan declared hot-headed.

“Evil is evil,” Aramis stated calmly. “I doesn’t matter who is more evil than the other. That’s up to God to decide.” His conscience did not seem clear, but he sided with Athos. “I don’t like it either. But what do you expect us to do? Get rid of both and later tell the King that we thought it was the right thing?” He shook his head in desperation.

“We don’t have a choice here,” Athos growled menacingly. “It is our duty to protect this Comte. What chooses to do or not to do in the meantime is none of our business.” 

“Well but it bloody well should be!” Porthos, to everybody’s surprise, sided with d’Artagnan. “I became a musketeer because I wanted to spread justice, and not to sell my conscience to the King.” 

An uncomfortable silence settled around them, and Athos bit his lower lip in uncertainty. 

“We cannot let Mathieu in, and he is no man you can reason with,” Aramis started carefully. “But all those innocent people out there, in danger thanks to the riot...” His voice broke and he desperately turned his head away, suddenly murmuring something in a different language that sounded very much like a prayer.

Athos swayed dangerously on the spot, but he managed to stay upright. 

“My orders tell me not to think about it,” he whispered. “But my conscience tells me it’s a choice we have to make”

“Choosing between one evil and the other...,” Aramis murmured absent-mindedly. He sighed. “Anyone here an idea? Just, anything? And keep in mind that Athos is not fit for a fight.”

Athos opened his mouth to protest, but the look Aramis gave him was almost intimidating. “Don’t even try to argue with me, Athos.”

D’Artagnan looked determined. “We’ll find way, we just have to. One that’ll end with no victims on either side.”

Suddenly Porthos participated in the discussion again, and he showed them what they so desperately needed. A hopeful grin, something Porthos always showed when he was up to something. 

“I think I have a plan. One that could work.” 

“Does anyone has to die in your plan?” Athos asked bluntly. 

Porthos shook his head. “No. But it can buy us some time.”

-MMMM-

**The bouclier rouillé, Paris, 1656**

“How did they get out of this?” That seemed to be the only question Verde had. For a child of his age, he was surprisingly mature, and understood a lot of the moral difficulties Brujon always had a hard time talking about. 

Brujon took a deep sip of his wine. 

“They used a trick, to distract the angry crowd and buy some time. D’Artagnan lured the crowd away, making them think he was the Comte on a horse trying to escape. Then, Comte Dechaux agreed to take in all the others, and Athos and Aramis headed off to Paris to get reinforcements. Athos had to stay in Paris due to his injury, but with the help of Tréville, they managed to restore the order in Chinon.”

“How?” Verde wanted to know but Brujon just sighed.

“That’s the story for another time, little one. But rest assured all four of them did everything within their power to stand up for what is right. Just like they always did.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading and the support, I appreciate it! 
> 
> Chinon is a real place in France, but the Comte and the 'battle' is fictional. The ending here is quite abrupt, I know, but maybe I'll write a longer story out of this one day.


	6. A different France

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Athos and Sylvie return to Paris with their son Raoul, when Captain d'Artagnan is in desperate need of their help.

__

_Still, round the corner, there may wait. A new road or a secret gate. – J.R.R.Tolkien_

**Le bouclier rouillé, Paris, 1656**

„So, what did Athos do?“ Rissé slammed an empty mug on the wooden table and signalled the innkeeper he should refill.

Brujon’s eyes shot up, confusion written all over his face. “Hm?”

Rissé rolled his eyes. “You told us about Aramis and d’Artagnan, as well as Constance. Athos left after Grimaud’s death, didn’t he?”

Brujon nodded. “He did. Raoul was born in ’38, and he and Sylvie returned to Paris for a short time, before they left again to see more of the country, or perhaps other countries as well. It took him three years to return again.”

Gaulier snorted and smoothed Verde’s hair. “Well, I haven’t seen him since...what? ’51?”

“Yeah,” Brujon confirmed, nodding knowingly. “That was the last time he was in Paris, for the King’s birthday celebration. D’Artagnan saw him again though, just not here.”

Gaulier nodded. “Seems like he withdrew from the life in Paris.”

“Athos may not live here anymore, but he’ll always have a connection to Paris. And to answer your question, Rissé,” Brujon added and caught the younger one’s gaze.   
“He and Sylvie were absent for some years, and the first time they returned was in 1641. And let’s just say, he came at the right time.”

-MMMM-

**Paris, 1641**

“All these years, and I almost forgot how beautiful Paris can look.” Athos slowly dismounted from his horse and firmly took the reins in his left hand. Sylvie and Raoul were atop of the other horse, the young boy soaking in the environment around him with big, blue eyes. Athos stretched out his arms and hauled his son off the big animal, gently placing him on unsteady legs on the ground, before he helped his wife down, who dismounted with an elegance that could compete with the Queen’s. 

“Easy to forget when all you remember about it are the beggars and the misery,” Sylvie responded with a hint of sarcasm and surveyed the road they were on with somber eyes. 

Athos grunted approvingly and side by side with Sylvie, they walked their horses through the street of Paris, Athos’ eyes constantly locked on his three year old son who fortunately never ran away too far from his parents. Until suddenly a hand yanked at his arm and forced him to stop. Athos frowned and immediately tried to escape the light, unfamiliar touch. With his free hand, he signalled Sylvie to get Raoul. 

Athos now turned his head to look at the person who had stopped him. It was an old woman, her grey hair bound tightly behind her head, wearing a dirty, green dress. But she had kind brown eyes, and Athos really did not feel threatened by her. Though the look she gave him was very insisting. 

“I’m sorry but can I help you?” Athos asked as polite as he could manage, pulling his arm out of her clutching hands immediately. 

“You cannot go there, Monsieur,” the woman said in a haunting, raspy voice. She had a strange accent, one that Athos encountered in the south of the country quite often. She definitely wasn’t from Paris. “It’s too dangerous,” she added.

“I don’t understand?” Athos replied a little colder than he had intended. 

“There are criminals hiding somewhere out there. They steal from us, they threaten us and one of us has been murdered as well. The road is not safe.” Her eyes locked on Raoul, who was clutching onto his mother’s skirts. “Especially not for a child.”

“Excuse my mother,” a voice reached Athos’ ears and a young man, a merchant by the looks of it, joined the scene. He also did not seem to have been in Paris for a long time yet. “She tends to be a little dramatic at times.”

“What did she mean?” Sylvie threw in, not up for any nice words. “People were murdered here?”

The merchant took off his hat and respectfully bowed his head a tiny bit as a greeting. “Yes, Madame. People vanish here. Children disappear. There have been thieves marauding in the streets for days now, but yesterday, those people also murdered an important costumer of mine in an alley. I’d recommend not to take this street, wherever it is you’re going.”

“Does the Captain know that?” Athos wanted to know. 

The merchant looked puzzled. “Who?”

“Captain d’Artagnan,” Athos replied with growing impatience. “Of the Musketeers. Does he know about this incident?”

The man in front of him shook his head, a bitter expression on his face. “No. I mean, I don’t know. I did not tell him. The Captain is busy with something else these past days, as is the entire regiment. Nobody has been able to catch him for more than a few seconds this week.”

All possible alarm bells rang in Athos’ head and he straightened up, exchanging a worried look with Sylvie. 

“Any idea why?” He noticed how his voice got that tone again, the tone he had used during interrogations back when he had still worn the musketeer pauldron. 

“The missing child,” the elder lady answered. “Everybody knows that the captain puts all his efforts into finding the kid.”

“A missing child?” Sylvie questioned now, her concern growing as much as Athos’. 

The merchant sighed, but nodded. “One of the boys who vanished here two days ago. The Captain and his musketeers are searching for him all over the city, with drawings and everything else they have. It’s not the first child who vanished, but Captain d’Artagnan seemed even more determined to find this one. Though I have to admit, he also put in a great effort to find the other ones. But after this boy went missing? Christ, the captain went crazy.”

“They believe it’s one of the captain’s relatives,” the merchants mother added. “Maybe his nephew or the son of one of his musketeers. Madame d’Artagnan also looked very worried when I saw her this morning.” 

Athos bit down a hasty reply. D’Artagnan had no relatives in Paris, and Athos might not have been here for a while, but this would’ve been something d’Artagnan would’ve mentioned in his letters. So it had to be something else. 

“This was supposed to be a nice family visit,” Athos dryly murmured to Sylvie. “A nice, calm surprise visit to catch up with my brothers. No action, no outrage, just chatting calmly with a glass of wine.”

“You should’ve known that that was not going to happen,” Sylvie scolded him, but with a warm expression on her face. Athos raised a questioning eyebrow. “We’re talking about musketeers here. About d’Artagnan,” Sylvie explained and Athos sighed. 

“So, the Captain is looking for this child, yes?” Athos asked again, just to make sure he understood everything right. 

The man nodded vigorously. His mother on the other hand looked to the floor. 

“I think I have seen him.” It was barely more than a hoarse whisper, but Athos’ hearing was sharp and he did not miss the sluggish words out of her mouth. 

“What was that?” He turned towards her. 

“Excuse my mother,” the merchant babbled again and gently tried to guide the lady away from Athos and his family. “Her mind is not completely clear these days. We won’t bother you any longer.”

“No, no, no,” Sylvie said and gestured him to stay, before she gently grabbed the woman’s hand, squeezing it lightly. “What did you say? You saw the missing boy?”

The elder lady nodded hesitantly. 

“Where?” Athos wanted to know, not nearly as friendly and understanding as Sylvie was. 

“Mother, you should really not bother them with that. It was probably nothing, who knows if...,” the merchant said but Athos shushed him with a single glare. 

“I...I can show you,” the woman finally answered.

Athos forced a smile. “Very well. But first...” He looked at Sylvie, who understood what he wanted to do first without asking.

“You stay here!” Athos ordered and mounted his horse, putting Raoul in front of him, so that Sylvie could mount her own horse as well. Athos pressed his heels into the animal’s flank and urged it into a fast trot.

“Where are you going?” the merchant shouted after him, but Athos did not bother to turn around again. 

“To see the Captain,” he murmured, more to his son than to the man who had asked the question. 

-MMMM-

The new garrison was hard to miss. D’Artagnan had kept him updated in his letters, because last time Athos was here about three years ago, the rebuilding was still in progress. But the result really was worth all the work d’Artagnan reported about. It was a broad, impressive building. The archway had been completely renovated and someone, probably an architect working for the crown, had embedded multiple carvings into the stone. Athos had to admit, it looked beautiful. 

But he rarely had time to admire all of it. He and Sylvie almost crushed through the gates and urged their horses to a stop in the courtyard, which was a bit bigger than Athos remembered it. It was completely empty, except for the stable boy, a young lad Athos did not recognize, who now dropped the pitchfork, frozen in shock. 

Athos handed a restless Raoul over to his mother before he jumped off the horseback, looking around the courtyard for any sign of d’Artagnan. 

“C...can I ... h...help you?” the stable boy stuttered, and Athos wondered why the hell he was so scared. The swordsman had looked more dangerous in the past. 

“The Captain,” Athos snapped in his urgency. “Where is he?”

“Absent.” That was another voice, coming from the opposite direction. Constance was standing in the doorway to the main house, hands on her hips and with a slightly amused smile on her lips. She looked at Sylvie. “You should really teach your man some manners.”

Sylvie sighed dramatically. “I have given up a long time ago.” 

Athos just growled. “I can hear you, you know?”

Constance just waved with her hand and approached. “I’m aware.” A moment of hesitation, but then Athos stepped forward and placed a gentle kiss on Constance’s cheek. 

“It’s good to see you, Constance,” Athos said mildly and stepped back to make space for Sylvie, who pulled her friend into a tight hug and introduced Raoul to her afterwards. The boy was interested in Constance’s wild locks immediately and had no problem at all that she picked him up to sit on her hip, as he was too busy playing with her hair. 

“You two...no you three were deeply missed,” Constance stated and smiled at Raoul, but even Athos, who usually had a hard time to figure out what was going on in a person’s mind, could see that she was exhausted. And worried. He needed to know what was going on.

“Constance,” he whispered and approached carefully. “We were told d’Artagnan is searching for a missing child. For days.”

Constance’s face froze, the smile dying on her lips. 

“What’s going on here?” Sylvie demanded to know, a hand on her hip, her face determined. 

“D’Artagnan will tell you,” Constance said through clenched teeth and she handed Raoul over to Sylvie. Athos furrowed his brow. Constance’s behaviour was unusual. She was not one for holding back whenever there was a problem, and she most definitely wasn’t one for letting her husband speak for her. 

“Constance,” Sylvie tried again, in a softer voice. “What...?”

“Not here,” Constance hissed, her eyes roaming over the courtyard suspiciously. “Come inside, then we will...” She was interrupted by the sound of hooves clattering over stone, and within moments, a group of riders rode through the archway and on the courtyard. Four musketeers, and Captain d’Artagnan in the front. He looked almost the same as he did three years ago, though Athos was able to make out more worry lines on his forehead. Being the Captain of the musketeers was no easy job, but he also knew that he had chosen the right person to do this. D’Artagnan brought his horse up to the stables before he dismounted hastily, handing the reins over to the stable boy. Then, he turned around, and his eyes finally fell on Athos, who was still standing near the doorway together with Sylvie, Raoul and Constance. 

A short moment where Athos was sure to see disbelief in the Captain’s face, until he quickly crossed the distance that separated them and pulled his old friend into a firm hug. No matter how tense the situation seemed to be, Athos did not want to miss out on the reunion he had waited for the past months. 

D’Artagnan released him from the hug again and turned towards Sylvie to greet her, then he knelt down to say hello to Raoul. 

“I did not expect you here,” the Captain commented over his shoulder.

“Yeah, it’s was supposed to be a surprise visit, to have a drink and catch up with each other, but as I see it, it has to wait.”

D’Artagnan stood up again, his face turning serious at an instant. “Don’t get me wrong, Athos,” he explained and nervously shifted from one foot to the other, “but there are duties that require my attention right now.”

“We know,” Sylvie cut in, grabbed the Captain by the forearm and dragged him after her through the door. “And you’ll tell us what it is about now.”

Athos picked up his son and followed with Constance, who cautiously closed the door behind them. D’Artagnan scanned the room, apparently to make sure they were alone. 

“What do you want to know?” he asked straight forward, his arms folded in front of his chest. 

“The child,” Athos replied, his voice getting that slightly cynical tone again. “What happened and why are you neglecting other things that are happening here? That’s just not like you.”

D’Artagnan ignored the subliminal insult and shot Athos a piercing look. 

“It’s not just _a child_ ,” he blurted out, anger colouring his voice. “It’s the King. He’s missing.”

Athos noticed Sylvie gasp, and he himself barely managed more than a surprised lift of the eyebrow. “The King?” he repeated slowly, as if he did not believe the captain. “How the hell did you lose the King?”

“It wasn’t his fault,” Constance eagerly defended her husband and made a step forward. “Louis is a clever boy. He escaped the palace, and went off into the city. To see how the people do, he said. One of our musketeers found him, but was attacked shortly after. We found him bleeding in an alley, the King was nowhere to be seen.”

Silence enveloped them for a good minute. D’Artagnan stared at Athos, patiently waiting for his mentor’s reaction, while Sylvie was whispering something to Constance Athos wasn’t able to make out.

“Why on earth,” Athos started and his voice was quivering as he failed to control his nerves. “would the King think it’s a good idea to wander the streets of Paris alone? He’s a child!”

“A clever child,” d’Artagnan commented sourly. “With a rebellious streak at the moment.”

“Takes it after his father, I suppose,” Athos cursed and ran a hand through his hair. 

D’Artagnan frowned for a split second. “You’re talking about Louis or Aramis?”

“Not of importance, both of them had the talent for stupid decisions,” Athos stated bluntly, which elicited a dry chuckle out of Constance.

“Where is the Queen?” Athos queried, knowing very well that she was unlikely to just sit around and do nothing.

D’Artagnan looked up, looking like a guilty puppy with big, brown eyes. “In her chambers at the Louvre.”

Athos sighed. “Voluntarily?”

“Kinda. I placed two guards there to make sure that she’s not leaving. I cannot afford to look for both of them.”

Athos just stared at his friend, not a trace of compassion passing his face. D’Artagnan somehow managed to lock the Queen inside the palace and sell it as a necessary move. “You are beyond saving, my friend,” he said dryly. 

“Empathy, Athos,” d’Artagnan murmured. “You really need to work on that one.”

“Tell me something I don’t know,” he replied smoothly, and tilted his head, thinking. “What about the minister?” Athos asked calmly. 

D’Artagnan tensed. “Out to visit Porthos and some other Generals at the front. About to return this weekend.”

Athos raised an eyebrow. “He doesn’t know about this, does he?” 

The Captain shook his head. “And if so, he’d have my head once he finds out what has happened.”

“That’s not fair, Aramis is not going for your head,” Athos mused and hinted a wry grin. “But even I cannot save you from a torment he’s going to invent for you personally.”

D’Artagnan simply ignored him. “I looked everywhere, Athos. It looks like someone is targeting children his age, with a similar physical appearance. I’m not sure if they know he is the King, but if so...”

Constance was at the verge of breaking out into a lecture, that Athos could see, but the swordsman quickly put a hand on d’Artagnan’s shoulder.

“Worrying won’t help you find the King,” he said insistently with as much empathy as he could muster. “But asking that witness I ran into after I entered the city might lead you to a trace.” 

The captain’s eyes wandered up, something like hope and faith flickering in them, outshining the dark circles underneath. “You mean...?” 

Athos nodded. “Yes. Trust me on this one.” He exchanged a brief look with Sylvie, who took Raoul out of his arms and gave him a confident nod, as if to give him a permission he did not ask for. 

“Come with me.”

D’Artagnan nodded determined, and put on his hat, but Constance followed them too. Athos looked at her in confusion, and the face she showed them was frightening. 

“I’m coming with you,” she simply said and pulled a holster from the table nearby to sling it around her waist. 

D’Artagnan opened his mouth, clearly for an attempt to protest, but she tolerated no arguments. The look she gave her husband was quite clear. Still, he was brave enough to try. 

“Who knows where we may end up on, what if it’s...” but Constance did not let him finish. 

“I wasn’t asking!” she snapped. “You two idiots out to question a witness? The poor soul. Even a troll has more patience and empathy than you two at the moment.”

After that, no further arguments were said, no more questions asked. Constance mounted a horse and d’Artagnan and Athos just did as they were told. 

-MMMM-

The merchant and his mother had waited for them, as Athos had asked of them. It took several minutes and more than one attempt to introduce d’Artagnan and Constance, as the merchant would not believe it and his mother was clearly resisting the urge to laugh, but in the end, thanks to Constance’s skilful interrogation, they got all the information they needed.

The woman had told them she had seen the boy near an artists’ house, close to the Chapelle Saint-Roche. She had reported that there have been other boys who looked similar too, and they had been accompanied by two heavily armed men. That had led to another discussion between the Captain and his wife about her accompanying them, which d’Artagnan had gloriously lost. 

Now they approached the house where they were told the boy had been seen this morning. D’Artagnan had instructed the citizens of Paris to act as if he wasn’t there, to look as casual as possible. D’Artagnan had also taken off his musketeer pauldron, to not be recognized as a musketeer immediately. 

“So, what’s the plan?” Athos asked. 

D’Artagnan swallowed hard and clearly avoided Constance’s gaze. “Alright, I have one, but none of you are going to like it.” 

“Then think of a different one,” Athos suggested dryly, but he knew that look. D’Artagnan had already made the decision. Constance sighed dramatically and cupped her husband’s face in her hands.

“Tell me you don’t plan on doing anything stupid.”

D’Artagnan grimaced. “I would never.” He rolled his eyes. “It’s all going to be fine, but I’d be very thankful if you two could do what I ask of you as fast as you can.” 

“Meaning?” Athos asked sharply. 

“You two go to the neighbours’ house, explain the situation and go to the cellar. The people here told me that almost all of them here are connected with small tunnels, mostly used as storage space. You approach through there.”

“And you?” Constance wanted to know.

“I’m going to buy you some time. Go!”

Without further hesitation, d’Artagnan walked up to the artist’s house and knocked on the door. 

“What is he doing?” Athos hissed and jumped up, hand over the sword around his belt. 

“Nothing good,” Constance explained and dug her hand into Athos’ forearm. “Come on, we need to go.” She dragged him into the crowds of citizens, but both of them had one eye on d’Artagnan. The door he stood in front of was opened now, but Athos could not make out who was. Then, all of the sudden, they watched d’Artagnan taking a hit against the head and he slumped against the doorframe, before he was dragged inside.

Athos felt Constance jump next to him, but he grabbed her arm tightly and made her stay in the crowd. 

“We have a job,” he hissed into her ear and he mentally prepared himself for paying with a slap, but it never came. Constance merely pressed her lips together, forming a thin line, and strode over to the neighbour house. To say she knocked on the door would be an understatement. She almost crushed it with her bare fist.   
A young woman, a little bit younger than Constance perhaps, opened the door, and her face fell immediately when she took notice of the two grim looking persons at her doorstep. 

“Can I help you?” she asked, not able to hide the shocked expression. 

“Madame,” Constance started, her voice urgent. “We don’t have much time for explanations. Your neighbour house is a crime scene, and we need to get there. Now!”  
The woman still stared at them in confusion, not moving aside. 

“Apologies,” Athos stated and shoved her to the side as gently as he managed. “But this is really urgent.”

And he rushed down the stairs, Constance at his heels, who sent an apologetic look into the woman’s direction. They arrived in a small cellar, and indeed, there were tunnels, that apparently led to the neighbours house. There was only one problem. 

“Merde,” Athos cursed and readjusted his weapon belt. The tunnel was blocked with multiple, heavy boxes, as well as old paintings and half-finished statues. Storage room, just as d’Artagnan told them. Athos just did not expect them to actually use it. 

“Great,” Athos murmured again with a low voice and shot Constance an annoyed look. “You’re up for some climbing?”

Constance was already halfway over the first boxes. “I am."

Athos grumbled something incomprehensible before he followed her, cursing multiple times as he almost hit his head on the ceiling or almost got stuck between all the stuff gathered in the tunnels. 

Constance was way faster than he was, which was odd considering that she was wearing a skirt. “What, you’re simply a bit rusty,” she whispered over her shoulder as she was waiting on the other side already.

Athos grimaced. “I have a three year old son, Constance. I’m definitely not out of practice.”

Madame d’Artagnan merely hinted a grin but Athos signalled her to stay silent. He heard voices from upstairs, and footsteps. Only two men. That could not be too hard. But they had overwhelmed d’Artagnan too, so who knew how experienced these men were in combat. 

Athos nodded towards Constance, who pushed herself around the corner into a little room to the left, while Athos tried to stay hidden in the tunnel. Within moments, a man appeared in his sight, holding a torch. It was a man about Athos’ height, with broad shoulders and intimidating armour. He had no time to lose. Athos jumped out of cover and grabbed the man from the side, holding him in a headlock and muffling the shouts that escaped his victim’s lips. But he was not prepared for the elbow that caught him in the side and knocked him backwards. To his relief, the man did not scream for help. He grimly looked at Athos and tried to reach for the weapon, but Athos tackled him against the wall before he could do so. As a result, he felt a fist on his jaw and he stumbled, feeling two strong hands enclose around his throat. 

“Don’t.” Constance voice was what saved him and once Athos was able to focus his eyes, he saw the blade resting against his attacker’s neck. The man narrowed his eyes and did not let go of Athos yet. 

“You bring women as your backup?” he hissed and Athos could feel the spit on his face. He made a disgusted sound.

“Oh please, this is getting old,” Constance snarled and did not lower her sword an inch. The pistol was of no use in this cellar, besides, the other man upstairs would know at an instant that there was something wrong. Which could place the King in danger. 

Finally, the man loosened his grip around Athos’ throat and the second Athos was able to breathe again, he hit the man against the temple, knocking him out at an instant. He fell against the wall and landed on the floor in a heap.

Constance still stood vigil, her sword prepared to strike if necessary.

“You can handle this?” Athos asked her, not to underestimate her, but to ask for permission to leave her down here. 

She nodded, her worried eyes flickering up to Athos. “Go, find him. You have a Captain and a King to save.”

Athos managed a wry grin and turned on the heel, heading upstairs as quiet as he could. A wall separated him from the main room, where he was able to make out voices. He walked closer, pressing himself against the wall, a hand on his sword so the clank wouldn’t give his position away.

“My name is d’Artagnan,” Athos heard his friend’s voice through the thin walls. “I’m Captain of the musketeers and my men will probably search for me soon. I’d advise you to let me go.” He sounded fierce, strong, and confident. A proud spark lit up in Athos.

The criminal on the other hand laughed hysterically. 

“Yeah, and the boy here claims to be the King of France. Seriously, some of you are clearly outta your mind.” He had a low, raspy voice, which led Athos to the conclusion he was at least his age. 

“D’Artagnan?” It was a small, childish voice that seemed to call out for the Captain. Athos only had to guess it was the King. And now, Athos had to act. Once this bastard learned that they actually had the King of France, who knew what they were going to do. 

There was only one man threatening them, Athos was sure of it. He was ready to take the chances. A rush of adrenaline flowed through his veins as he prepared himself, pulling out his pistol as silent as he could manage. 

“Where the hell is Jubert?” the man exclaimed and Athos heard footsteps coming nearer. “He had one bloody job.”

Athos took a deep breath, raised his pistol and stepped around the corner. In the blink of an eye, he took notice of the situation. D’Artagnan was sitting in the middle of the room on the floor, hands and ankles tightly bound together. A bruise was forming on his forehead and a small trickle of blood ran down his face. In the corner of the room, there were children, at least five boys with darker, blonde hair, about the same age, all bound to the wall with a rope. 

The sight was enough to make Athos react in an appropriate way. 

“Not Jubert,” he explained to the man, aimed with his pistol and barely managed to catch the shocked expression of the criminal before his bullet buried itself in his chest. The man dropped to the floor like a puppet whose strings have been cut, and two of the children screamed when they heard the gunshot.

Athos wasted no time and rushed over to d’Artagnan and cut him free.

“Athos,” d’Artagnan said as Athos helped him up. “There’s another one...heading...downstairs.”

“I know.”

“Constance?”

“Of course.”

A proud expression flickered over d’Artagnan’s face and he steadied himself by putting a hand on Athos’ shoulder. 

“You know what, my friend?” he asked, a hint of amusement shining through. 

Athos just raised a questioning eyebrow. 

“You really have a good timing. That did not change.” D’Artagnan grinned.

“Thanks, I guess?” Athos responded and helped to free the other captured children. “Good job on distracting them too. I knew spending time with Aramis and his talent for delivering fine speeches would come in handy some day.”

D’Artagnan just grimaced and took the knife from Athos to cut the other children loose. Athos knelt down in front of the young, blonde boy, who he recognized as the King. There was no doubt. 

“Your majesty, my name is Athos,” he introduced himself as he pulled the rope off the child’s wrists. “Do you know who I am?”

Louis nodded shyly, his eye flickering to d’Artagnan and back to Athos again. He was much taller than Athos remembered him, though he was still a child. 

“Are you unharmed?” Athos queried, his eyes scanning the young king in his dirty clothes from head to toe. 

“I am fine,” the King spoke, his voice very mature for his age. The other children, who obviously did not believe him to be the king either, stared at him with wide eyes.   
Athos helped him up and addressed d’Artagnan again. 

“What did they want? Were you able to find out?”

D’Artagnan sighed. “His majesty just happened to be at the wrong place at the wrong time. These men here were searching for a young boy, but they only knew vaguely how he looked like and where he lived. Said they needed him to use him against his mother, who still owed them a lot of money.”

“So that’s why they ambushed people on that street and took the children?”

D’Artagnan nodded. “I don’t think they wanted to harm them, but for them, they only were means to an end. I don’t think they cared much about their well-being either.”

Much to everybody’s surprise, the answer came from Louis, who straightened up and stared at Athos with a look that Athos almost forgot this was not only the King, but also a nine year old child. 

“Good thing you were here,” he spoke, his voice trembling slightly. He nodded at d’Artagnan. “Thank you.”

Athos could see d’Artagnan was resisting the urge to scold the young king, so the swordsman knelt down again to speak to him. 

“Your majesty, you had everybody worried greatly. Your mother, the Captain, they were more than desperate to find you. Please, next time when you plan to take a walk among the streets, don’t do it alone.”

Athos was expecting an angry reply, or an expression of rage, but Louis was surprisingly composed and merely nodded. 

“You are right.” He turned towards d’Artagnan. “I will do in the future. Can you bring me home now?”

The anger on d’Artagnan’s face vanished and was replaced by a soft and compassionate smile. 

“Of course, your majesty.”

A short while later, they were all assembled outside. A group of musketeers had arrived to help get the children home to their parents, and Jubert was transported to a nearby prison. 

“Let’s get you all home,” d’Artagnan said to the children and gestured his musketeers to take care of the others, as he mounted his own horse, placing the King in front of him. “See you two at the garrison?” 

Athos nodded.

“Let’s just hope your mother is not going to murder me,” d’Artagnan said into the King’s ear who just rolled his eyes, before the two of them took off towards the palace. 

Athos felt Constance’s presence next to him, and he looked up, an amused smile playing on his lips. 

“You think the Queen’s gonna let him live?” he asked. 

Constance shrugged. “Probably. He’s bringing back her son. It’s Aramis’ reaction he should fear.”

Athos merely grinned and gave Constance a hand in mounting her horse, so they could return to Sylvie and Raoul at the garrison.

-MMMM-

**In the evening**

Athos felt like he was thrown back a couple of years in his life. They had saved a King, upset the Queen, killed a few criminals and now sat together with a bottle of wine. They weren’t at a tavern though, but seated at a table inside the garrison. Constance and Sylvie were talking quietly to each other, Raoul was asleep on his father’s lap.

There was a gap, a hole because neither Aramis nor Porthos were here. But Athos was beyond delighted to catch up with d’Artagnan again. He would never admit it, especially not in front of Aramis, but as much as he enjoyed travelling with Sylvie and Raoul, he had missed his brothers deeply.

“So,” d’Artagnan finally started and threw him a mischievous grin. “What have you three been up to?”

Athos sighed and took a deep sip of his wine, balancing it over his son’s head. 

“We’ve seen so much!” Sylvie answered in his place, her eyes shining with excitement. “So many different places outside of Paris. You know how different the people are in the south?”

“He’s from Gascogny, my dear,” Athos answered calmly. “Of course he knows.”

“But you stayed away from the front, didn’t you?” d’Artagnan asked. 

“No, d’Artagnan,” Sylvie replied, her voice dripping with sarcasm. “We bring Raoul there, and tell him the cannon fire are the fireworks at New Year’s Eve.” She shot him a stern look, but then a smile appeared on her face. “Of course we stay away as much as we can. Once the situation is a bit calmer, we plan on seeing other countries as well.”

Athos nodded as confirmation. “The world is bigger than I imagined. I want to show my son that the world not only consists of Paris and the life we lead here.”

“Understandable,” Constance said and moved closer to d’Artagnan. “But rest assured that it is always a pleasure to have you here. We missed you.”

Sylvie smiled. “The feeling is mutual.” She exchanged a brief look with Athos. “Tell them about our trip to Rouen.”

Athos’ face fell and he hurried to empty his wine glass. 

“Why, what is it?” Constance asked, curiosity glistering in her eyes. 

Sylvie grinned. “Rouen is beautiful. But we experienced more than we hoped for.”

“Meaning?” d’Artagnan asked teasingly. 

Athos groaned. “Let’s just say there was an incident with Raoul and the daughter of a local tailor.”

Constance sat up. “That sounds like a story worth telling.”

“It’s a long story,” Athos tried, but he felt like there was no way around this.

D’Artagnan refilled Athos’ glass and raised his own. 

“We do have all evening, my friend.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another adventure, set in S1, coming next. Thanks for reading!


	7. Fool's Gold

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The musketeers are sent to pick up Gold for the King in Calais. When mysterious strangers attack them and claim the gold belongs to them, Athos, Porthos, Aramis and d'Artagnan have to figure out a plan.

__

_“I am a man of fortune, and I must seek my fortune” – Henry Avery 1694_

**Le bouclier rouillé, Paris, 1656**

“Now you got me all curious,” Gaulier declared. “What was it with Raoul and the tailor’s daughter?”

Brujon huffed, his eyes not diverting from the drink between his hands. The later it was, the more agitated he grew. Midnight was coming closer. And that meant, the musketeers at this table were getting closer on seeing their heroes all reunited again. Brujon liked to see it as a friendly reunion, based on their eternal promise of brotherhood.

“Don’t remember much of it, to be honest,” he responded to Gaulier’s question. “I just know that it brought Athos a lot of trouble.”

“Didn’t he say something about Raoul spinning both him and the poor girl into a criminal affair with the local self-proclaimed ‘leader of the scum’?” Rissé threw in casually, not bothering to look up. 

Brujon grimaced. “Yeah, no, it’s a lot more complicated. I think. Created out of a simple misunderstanding of a three year old boy, who could not find his mother and asked for help. And just happened to interrupt a highly illegal trade with stolen diamonds. But I don’t know what exactly happened, you should ask Athos later.”

Rissé rolled his eyes. “If I learned one thing over the past years, it is that there are some things you just don’t ask Athos about if you don’t want to experience his tasteful stare of disgust for the next few hours.”

Brujon raised his glass. “Amen to that.” 

Rissé cleared his throat. “Well, I just heard that he had to pay a good amount of money to the girl to escape the whole ordeal unscathed.”

Gaulier snorted. “Well, you can always settle things with money.” He dug his nose back into the wine glass, drowning out his next words that sounded much like ‘damn greedy bastards’. 

“But the musketeer’s don’t just care about money, right” Verde spoke up, his voice lightened by excitement. 

Rissé shrugged. “No. But ninety percent of the troubles we run into are caused by gold.”

“It’s always about gold, Verde,” Brujon explained with a sigh. “About gold and who it belongs to. Most people do stop at nothing with a pile of shining gold in sight.”

-MMMM-

**Near Calais, France, August 1630**

It was insanely hot. The sun mercilessly burned its way through some thin clouds and bathed their path in cruel, bright light, lighting their way of misery with each step their tired horses took. 

“Good God, we’ve been travelling for days now,” d’Artagnan sighed and used the back of his hand to wipe the sweat from his brow. “If I have to spend one more day on the road with you three, I might lose my mind.”

Porthos snickered and Athos just rolled his eyes, which had basically become his standard response to practically everything. 

“Stop whining, whelp,” Porthos commented and slapped d’Artagnan hard on the back. “We should be there this afternoon.”

D’Artagnan looked up. “What the hell is taking so long? He’s been gone for ten minutes already!” the Gascon stated, and there was worry colouring his tone. 

“I’d rather wait ten minutes before I have to endure Aramis complaining about you killing his water supplies any longer,” Porthos explained dryly.

“He gave it to me!” d’Artagnan protested. 

“He offered you some water out of his can,” Athos threw in calmly. “He did not ask you to empty it.” 

“My throat felt dry like the desert. I was dying of thirst!” the Gascon declared dramatically to which Porthos could only respond with a sarcastic grunt.

“Yes. And now he is, so let him go to get some refreshments from the stream nearby. Show some patience, will you?” 

D’Artagnan opened his mouth to protest once again, but the look Athos gave him shut him up before another word escaped his lips. “Was never my strongest suit,” he mumbled at his horse’s mane and stroke the animal’s fur gently.

Porthos was ready to start a new conversation, when Athos silenced him with a raised hand. He had heard the breaking of a branch, and the rustling of leaves on the floor. Too many noises for it to be only Aramis.

The source revealed itself very soon. Three riders, on top of lean, wiry horses approached, with their pistols aimed at the musketeer’s heads. They did not look like bandits, they had more the appearance of poor farmers, and the way they held their pistols also showed them they were not experienced with firearms. As   
d’Artagnan’s hand darted towards his weapon belt, one of the riders just shook his head. 

“Don’t!” he warned and got closer. 

Athos looked seriously annoyed. This whole ambush scenario was getting boring. 

“What do you want?”

“Who are you?” he received a sharp counterquestion and Athos just raised an eyebrow, casting a meaningful glance at the pauldron shining on his shoulder.

“Speak!” he was ordered again and Porthos seemed to have to suppress an ironic laugh. 

“Drop that weapon before you hurt yourself. We’re the musketeers of the King. I’d advice you not to attack us.”

One of them nervously scanned the area. Once he saw the horses, his eyes shot up in panic, and he frequently tapped the older man at his side. 

“Sir, there are four horses.”

“And?” the older one replied angrily, still murdering Athos with his glare. 

“There are only three men.” 

Realization slowly set in the other two attackers as well. 

“Where is the fourth one?” Athos was asked, who merely shrugged. 

“Well, not where you’d like me to be,” a voice sneered from the trees and Aramis emerged behind the attackers, two pistols aimed at the back of their heads. “Greetings, gentlemen.” He tilted his head, as he had no free hand to tip his hat in a greeting manner as he usually did. “Would you be so kind and take away your weapons from my comrade’s heads?”

“How was the water?” Athos asked Aramis so casually as if he was asking for the weather, trying to distract the attackers and slowly reach for his weapons.

“Refreshing, thanks for asking,” Aramis replied mildly, his eyes still locked on the strangers, his pistols raised high.

“If you shoot one of us, your comrades will die too,” the older man countered in a relaxed voice, as if he did not believe Aramis’ threats. 

The marksman shot him a look that spoke of sincere scepticism. “I can take all three of you out before you even figure out how to properly use that pistol.”

The older farmer was not impressed. “Liar.”

Aramis just arched an eyebrow. “That’s what they all say. I don’t want to brag or something, but you really want to test the skills of a musketeer’s marksman? In a what...?” He made a step back, scanning the distance that separated them. “In an eight foot distance?”

“Just state your business, none of us has to die here,” d’Artagnan intervened with a sigh. 

The attackers exchanged some meaningful looks, all of them keeping an eye on Aramis, whose weapons did not quiver an inch. 

“Where are you headed?” the older man asked. Athos could almost hear d’Artagnan next to him drawing a breath to answer, but he cut in before the Gascon could say something wrong.

“North,” Athos said shortly, keeping a stern expression. 

“Where to exactly?”

“None of your business,” Porthos growled angrily. 

“Just tell me,” the man said, his voice cracking with desperation. “I don’t want to shoot anyone, I just need to know whether you are heading to Calais, or not.”

“What would we want in Calais?” Aramis asked, with a face of pure innocence. 

“You tell me,” the man countered, but he wasn’t so sure about it anymore. His hand was shaking hard. Athos saw it as an opportunity to grab his own weapon, but he noticed Porthos’ look from the side. _‘Let Aramis do’_ , it said. 

“Let me assure you, we’re merely on a simple mission for the King, to pick something up from one of his friends. We have no intentions of crossing your plans or whatever it is you’re aiming to achieve here.”

“But is your business in Calais?” they asked again.

“No,” Aramis growled annoyed.

“Why should I believe you?” They weren’t convinced.

“For God’s sake, why shouldn’t you?” Athos was close to losing his temper. 

Finally, the others lowered their weapons, casting doubtful glances at Aramis, who kept them up high as he circled them to get to his horse. “I hope for your own sake that you weren’t lying to us,” they said with a threatening tone in their voices. 

Aramis just nodded, readjusted his hat and mounted his horse. The other musketeers did the same and as soon as possible, they urged them into a fast trot so they could get some distance between themselves and those farmers. Athos knew deep inside that they had not believed him. They simply did not have a choice, considering Aramis would’ve blown their brains out if they hadn’t cooperated. 

Athos cast a glance at d’Artagnan, who was riding next to Aramis and whose eyes were resting on the marksman with a hint of skepticism. 

“You lied,” d’Artagnan just stated, his mouth trying to prevent an amused smile. 

“Of course I did,” Aramis replied, as if it was the most obvious thing on earth. 

“Why?” D’Artagnan wasn’t ready to let this go.

“Because my head is too pretty to be separated from my shoulders,” Aramis responded honestly.

Porthos snorted. “Yeah, that’s what you think.” 

“I’m not having this conversation again,” Athos cut in immediately. He very lively recalled having a detailed discussion about Aramis’ handsomeness last week, after a local drunk knocked him out so hard that his face turned purple for a while. It didn’t help to lift Athos’ spirits to have a week full of travelling with his friends in view, and he successfully avoided most of unnecessary discussions until now. 

They rode on for another hour, and Athos watched his comrades closely. D’Artagnan looked beyond tired, Aramis was grimacing with every step his horse took. Porthos tried to play it cool, but he needed some rest too. Athos himself also felt sore after all these days he spent on horseback.

“Gentlemen, we still have a few hours ahead,” Athos spoke up. “We should make a camp here, get a few hours of sleep. If all goes well, we should arrive in the evening.” 

He received some confirming grunts, and they all brought their horses to a halt. The animals immediately bowed down their necks and sunk their muzzles into the ankle-high grass, enjoying the little rest they got. 

Aramis claimed a spot by the tree, and without preparing a place or anything, he simply sat down and rested his head against the tree, closing his eyes in relief. Porthos knelt down close to him, opened his water can and took a few, deep sips. Athos pulled his hat down over his eyes, enjoying the shadows it gave him and the peace he was about to receive. He thought.

“So,” d’Artagnan said, trying to keep the conversation going, and apparently ignoring Athos’ silent plea for peace. “This gold we’re picking up, who does it belong to?”

“The King,” Porthos explained helpfully, delighted that somebody was occupying him. 

“Yeah, I know, but I mean, who did it belong to before?” d’Artagnan dug deeper. 

Athos took off his hat, accepting the reality that he was not going to get some calm minutes for now. “Farmers, tailors, blacksmiths, barons...the list goes on and on,” he declared matter-of-factly, surprised d’Artagnan did not know the details about this mission. Athos had assumed Tréville had told him everything. 

The Gascon just stared at Athos, waiting for him to continue. “And all of that just happened to be stored on one ship?”

Aramis sighed. “The ship Athos is talking about is the _Aurora_ , mon ami. The ship of Florian Lefevre.”

Athos could almost hear d’Artagnan’s brain working, putting the pieces together. 

“Florian Lefevre, the pirate?” he asked, his expression full of doubt. “I thought he died back in 1602?”

Porthos grunted affirmatively. “Yeah, he did. And I swear, if there is one thing I’d love to have witnessed with my own eyes, then it’s his execution.” 

“I know he was a cold-blooded murderer and so on, but do you really need the satisfaction?” Aramis threw in. Athos hid a grin. Neither Aramis nor d’Artagnan seemed to know what Porthos was referring to, but it was a story Athos knew Porthos would love to tell, so he let him. 

“No, of course not!” Porthos defended himself. “Don’t tell me you don’t know what is being told about his execution?”

His eyes locked on Aramis, who just blinked at him, his hands occupied with cleaning his pistols, but his face empty of any motions. 

“He was captured and sentenced to death, together with his entire crew,” Porthos told them. He visibly enjoyed the attention he got right now. D’Artagnan was soaking in the words and Aramis at least looked up with interest, so that’s what Athos assessed as progress. “And Lefevre was known to be a madman,” Porthos continued.   
“He challenged the authorities to promise him that each man he passed after his execution would be spared. It is said that he walked past six men before his body finally fell to the floor.”

“And did they keep their promise?” d’Artagnan wanted to know.

Porthos huffed. “And miss the chance to capture six brutal pirates? Of course not. They were executed along with all the others.”

“This man possessed a lot of gold, all stored in his ship. He wanted to buy his freedom at first, but the city’s reputation would’ve suffered if they had accepted the offer.”

“And why did it take them twenty-eight years to recover the gold?” d’Artagnan rightfully threw in. 

“Everybody thought the ship is haunted,” Athos growled. “Nobody dared to put a foot on the ship. But the man who cut Lefevre’s head off died last month, so they saw it as a sign and they finally retrieved the gold.”

“Let me guess, it wasn’t haunted?” Aramis asked sarcastically, finally done with his first pistol and now moving on to the second. 

“Of course not,” Athos retorted. “It was just common folklore, a story to scare the people. Lefevre left an imprint on this country, even after his execution. But the gold is now safe and sound in the hands of the city guards and they are ready to bring it to Paris, as it rightfully belongs to the King.”

“Hm,” Aramis made a surprised sound. “I wonder if the farmers from earlier had anything to do with this whole thing.”

“Why would you think that?” Porthos asked, his brow furrowed in confusion. 

Aramis shrugged. “Dunno. Just got a feeling.”

“Great,” Porthos mumbled. “Now you’ve upset me.”

Aramis apparently did not care and simply threw a concerned look at the path they had just travelled. 

“Damn, I’m starving,” d’Artagnan muttered. 

“I could go get some bread,” Aramis offered. “I know a farm, not far from here. Maybe they’ll sell some to me.”

D’Artagnan’s face was a mixture of surprise and doubt. He stared at the marksman as if he was waiting for something. 

“Why would you do that?” he finally asked, which lead to Aramis looking seriously offended. 

“Just trying to be helpful, lad,” Aramis responded sourly.

D’Artagnan dramatically clasped a hand over his heart. “How touching.”

Aramis raised an eyebrow, clearly amused and enjoying the banter. “Ungrateful youth,” he declared theatrical but with a smirk, then he rose from the ground, catching the sack of gold Athos threw at him with ease. 

“You shouldn’t go alone,” Athos said, not able to ignore the queasy feeling in his guts. 

Aramis rolled his eyes as he prepared his horse. “I’m a grown man, Athos. I think I can handle to buy some bread.”

“That’s not what it’s about,” the swordsman growled in annoyance.

“Very well,” Porthos seemed to sacrifice himself. “I wasn’t going to get much sleep anyway. I’ll come with you, ‘mis.” 

Aramis did not look as enthusiastic as Porthos apparently had hoped for. 

“What? Thought I’ll let you go alone to the lovely farmer’s daughter you told us about like what...a year ago? Whenever our last mission in Calais was.”

“How...?” Aramis tried to ask, but Athos cut him off. 

“You have that look on your face. You would not have that for a loaf of bread.” Athos rolled his eyes to underline his statement. 

“Good thing you’ve never experienced me hungry,” Aramis muttered. “Very well. I’ll take Porthos with me. At least he won’t scare the lady away like you did last time, Athos.”

“We were busy trying to escape some hired assassins, I was merely pointing out we did not have the time,” Athos defended himself sourly. 

“Still.”

“So, you’re not actually going there because you care so much about me?” d’Artagnan threw in, clasping a hand over his heart.

“Careful, or I’ll let you starve,” Aramis threatened with a teasing smile, before he quickly mounted his horse again that did not look that excited to be forced into action again. Porthos, who had watched quietly, just shook his head and followed. As Aramis already headed off, he turned towards Athos again. 

“No worries, I’ll make sure we come back quickly,” he said. 

Athos snorted. “If not, don’t complain that you did not get any sleep. We won’t wait for you.”

Porthos saluted sarcastically and his horse followed Aramis’. The silence that settled now was more than welcome in Athos’ eyes so he pulled his hat down again, his back and head resting against his saddlebags. 

It did take about five minutes until d’Artagnan finally dared to speak up again. 

“Athos?” 

The swordsman just grunted. 

“Are you sleeping?” Dumb question, and d’Artagnan probably knew that.

“Mhm.”

Even though Athos could not see him, he could almost feel d’Artagnan hesitate. The Gascon seemed to shift nervously. 

“I’m gonna go, tend to the horses.” He rightfully interpreted the lack of response from Athos as confirmation, and the musketeer could hear his younger companion get up and walk towards the grass, where the horses were pawing with their hooves. Something seemed to disturb them, but Athos trusted d’Artagnan to get the animals under control. He could hear the horses huff softly and d’Artagnan cursing as he tried to tame them. 

Athos finally took off the hat again, ready to pierce d’Artagnan with a glance that spoke of sincere annoyance, when he was alarmed at once at the sight he got. 

“Ath....” The warning yell from d’Artagnan was muffled immediately, and Athos could do nothing but watch as the young man was overwhelmed by four men at once and pinned to the ground. Athos jumped to his feet and pulled out his gun with his left hand and enclosed the hilt of his rapier with his right. He was about to run to d’Artagnan’s rescue, but he heard someone approach from behind and managed to parry the blow of the enemy’s sword just in time. 

Athos did not know who the attackers were, nor did he care right now. He was eagerly defending himself, one eye constantly resting on d’Artagnan who was struggling hard, but dragged away by his attackers. But they weren’t killing him, they were capturing him. So they wanted something. 

Athos’ inattentiveness came with a high price. He had been so distracted with watching what happened to his younger comrade that the kick against his chin caught him by surprise. His knee gave in and he hit the ground, but caught his fall with his wrist and managed to jump right back up again, thrusting his rapier through one of his opponent’s thigh. 

He then staggered backwards, trying to keep his enemies at bay with his sword. He knew he had no chance, there were too many. But he would go down trying. Just as he had managed to disarm an old man who violently swung his sword at him, he was hit from behind. He could feel the rusty, but sharp metal slash the skin on the back of his shoulder, destroying his flesh and muscle in the process. Just as Athos was progressing what had just happened, another strike caught him, this time from the front in his side. 

He stumbled backwards, so stunned that he failed to start another attack. He did not have the energy to do so anyway. He fell to his knees, his hands desperately trying to defend himself from any other harm, but nobody was attacking him anymore.

He managed to grab the hilt of his pistol and he fired without thinking twice, not aiming at someone specifically. His opponent laughed, he must’ve thought that Athos was a terrible marksman, but Athos had wanted to alarm Aramis and Porthos, hoping they were somewhere nearby already. 

Athos was sure to hear d’Artagnan’s desperate shouting somewhere in the distance, but his limbs did not cooperate, and his foggy mind was barely able to process anything. He could feel his head being yanked back by a hand digging itself into his hair

“Lefevre sends his regards,” a bass voice whispered, before Athos felt something being smashed hard against his temple and he was left alone in the embrace of darkness. 

-MMMM-

“But she’s beautiful, isn’t she?” Aramis raved with a spark of amusement glistening in his dark eyes, still referring to the farmer’s daughter who he desperately sought to see again. 

Porthos rolled his eyes. “Gorgeous. Once we have the gold, you have my permission to do whatever the hell you want. But after we retrieved the gold, ‘mis, or Athos will kill you.”

“Thanks for giving me your permission,” Aramis deadpanned. “He’d kill you too, for letting it happen.”

“Thanks. What a comfort.”

Aramis sighed. “You know I always put my duty first, no matter how alluring the distractions might be” He smirked.

“Yeah, I’m just here for your daily reminder,” the big musketeer countered and tightened his grip around the reins. “Come on. The whelp is probably starving ‘cause we’ve been taking so long.”

Aramis looked a little offended. “For the record, that was not my fault. I wasn’t the one who chatted so long with the farmer’s son.”

Porthos huffed a laugh. “I was being polite.”

Aramis smiled honestly. “Come on, we should hurry, or Athos is going to kill us after all.” 

The two musketeers simultaneously raised their eyebrows as a response to Athos’ lecture in sight, and forced their horses to a faster pace. Porthos was cradling the loaf of bread in his arms, as it was still warm and they had received quite a large piece for the money they had paid. And as much as Porthos hated to admit it, Aramis’ charm had probably helped them with negotiating. 

The place where they remembered the camp to be was within their eyesight now. Suddenly, a loud pistol shot echoed through the air, interrupting the silence that had settled over the wide fields. Aramis and Porthos exchanged one simple, worried look and without speaking a word, they dug their heels into their horses’ flanks and urged them into a fast gallop, both drawing their weapons, prepared to defeat any threat they might encounter. 

They finally reached the spoken place and their horses came to an abrupt stop, nickering loudly in protest for the rough treatment. 

Aramis did not know what Porthos had seen, but he dismounted too and inspected the area. 

“Aramis?” Porthos voice had a weird tone in it, something like resignation and worry at the same time. Aramis whirled around and quickly strode over to Porthos, who was holding a pistol between his hands. His friend’s warm eyes wandered up and mirrored the concern Aramis was feeling right now. 

“D’Artagnan,” Aramis breathed. He recognized the weapon, as he had taught his young friend many times how to clean it properly. There were traces of a fight around here, some stamped grass, some churned up dirt. Then, abandoned and layered with dust, Aramis found a hat. It belonged to Athos. Next to it was blood that was soaking into the dry soil.

Aramis no longer was able to conceal the panic he was feeling. Armed with two pistols, he straightened up.

“Athos!” His yell was left unanswered, just this disturbing, creepy silence all around. As if they had never been here. 

“Aramis!” Porthos suddenly shouted and the marksman saw his friend running towards a body near the field that was halfway covered by the shadows cast by a large tree. Aramis recognized the uniform immediately. Dropping all defensive walls, he followed Porthos, who had thrust his weapons to the ground and knelt down next to his friend. Aramis came to an abrupt halt behind Porthos, holding his breath as he watched his brother put two fingers on Athos’ neck. 

Porthos tilted his head. “Alive.” 

Aramis let out a breath of relief and knelt down at the other side. Athos was lying on his stomach, his head turned to the side. His uniform was shredded on his left shoulder, and trails of blood were running down his arm and forming a pool of blood on the ground. 

“What the hell happened here?” Porthos murmured, giving Aramis some space to work. “And where is d’Artagnan?” 

Aramis just grunted, leaving it to Porthos to interpret this statement. 

“Help me turn him to the side,” the marksman commanded and he kept his gloved hand on the shoulder wound. Porthos nodded and gently pushed Athos on his side, keeping a hand on his waist to steady him as Aramis examined him. The swordsman was out cold. 

“There is a gash at his side, I believe,” Aramis stated slowly. “But it’s nothing I can’t fix. The shoulder on the other hand is worrying me.” He made a short pause. “What about his head?” 

Porthos shrugged slightly and carefully swept the hair away, only to reveal a nasty laceration on Athos’ temple. Probably the blow that had rendered him unconscious. 

“Alright, Porthos get my saddlebags. And some water.” Porthos nodded and did as he was told. Aramis then took off Athos’ jacket halfway to reveal the true extend of the shoulder wound. The shirt underneath was soaked in dark, red liquid, and it was still bleeding sluggishly. Aramis first poured some water over the wound to wash it clean from all the dust and dirt. Then he quickly rummaged Athos’ pockets and found a flask filled with brandy. 

“Ah, Athos,” Aramis spoke softly, patting the unconscious man against the cheek. “I can always count on your love for strong alcohol.” Porthos chuckled dryly and ripped the shirt a little wider to fully expose the slashed skin. Without mercy, Aramis dumped half of the flask on the wound, and then took a clean cloth from his kit to gently dab off the blood.

It took quite a while to treat the wounds, and during the whole procedure, Athos did not stir once. It did worry Aramis, as he had no idea how serious that head wound could be. He was a medic, but no doctor. Finally, after what felt like an eternity, the shoulder wound was treated as best as they could, and the gash on his side was cleaned and bandaged. Luckily, it did not require any stitching. They were still holding Athos in his side-on position, in order to keep the dirt away from both of his wounds. The swordsman was ghostly white, and Aramis caught himself checking the pulse every few minutes. 

Now, all they could do was wait. Porthos had gone to search the area for d’Artagnan, but there 

“He doesn’t just disappear!” Porthos declared, after he came back with nothing but a piece of d’Artagnan’s travelling coat. “And he would’ve never left Athos to his fate.”

“As soon as Athos can tell us something, we will look for him,” Aramis tried to soothe his friend. Porthos did not look convinced. 

“You don’t think they...?” Porthos cleared his throat. 

“What, killed him?” Aramis finished the sentence for him. “No. If they’d killed him, why bother to carry his body with them? No, our dear friend is alive, I am certain. The question is where he is, and what we can do to save him.”

“Perhaps the attackers want to trade him? For the gold we’re supposed to retrieve?”

“We won’t know for sure,” Aramis retorted. “We cannot leave Athos here, and that means we can’t save d’Artagnan until then.”

Porthos desperately ran a hand over his face and rubbed his jaw, thinking. “Well, shit,” he breathed. Apparently, that was all he could contribute to the situation right   
now. 

Aramis grimaced. “My thoughts exactly.” He let out a worried sigh. “Who do you think did this? The farmers from earlier?” 

Porthos looked unsure. “Possibly.”

“Le..’vre.” A third voice suddenly was heard and Aramis and Porthos both looked down in surprise to see Athos’ eyes halfway open. The two friends looked at each other, frowning. 

“Did he just try to say Lefevre?” Porthos asked slowly. Aramis nodded hesitantly, and his eyes wandered back down to Athos. He was greeted with a judging look out of cold eyes. 

“Athos,” Aramis tried to sound as delighted as possible. “I see you decided to join us.”

He received nothing but a sour growl. Aramis and Porthos waited a few moments until Athos had the time to adjust his eyes to the brightness of daylight. 

“Wha...happened?” Athos murmured and tried to escape Aramis’ and Porthos’ grip by scrambling backwards, but a flash of pain passed his face and he sagged back onto the ground again, groaning. 

“Easy does it!” Porthos exclaimed and strengthened his hold around Athos. 

“We were hoping you could tell us,” Aramis replied with a soft and calming voice. 

Athos’ eyes were restlessly roaming the area, and Aramis knew he was looking for d’Artagnan. 

“Where’s d’Artagnan?” Athos asked with a surprisingly firm voice and tried to prop up on his elbow, but Aramis gently pushed him back to the ground. 

“Missing.” 

“But he’s not...?” Aramis was surprised to see a hint of concern and fear in his friend’s cold eyes. 

“No,” the marksman replied. “Or better, we don’t know for sure.” He was not trying to sugar coat it. D’Artagnan’s fate was uncertain, and they had to be prepared for everything. Though he was sending a short prayer for the boy’s safe return. He still had a bright future ahead, among the musketeers. And it could not end today. 

Athos had closed his eyes again, and judging by the symptoms, Aramis guessed that he had a concussion. 

“So, the old legendary pirate himself came to take revenge on us trying to ‘steal’ his gold?” Aramis could not put the pieces together. He had no idea what could be the reason behind this senseless attack. 

“You’re not actually implying that Florian Lefevre is still alive, are you?” Porthos scoffed, a little more derisive than intended. 

Aramis shrugged, his face a picture of indifference. “What do I know. I’m just considering all possibilities.” 

“He was executed about thirty years ago,” Porthos insisted, but with a hint of uncertainty in his voice. “There’s just no way.”

“I know, mon ami, I know.” Aramis rubbed his eyes with his hands. “You weren’t able to recognize any of the attackers, right Athos?” 

He received no reply. Aramis looked down and saw Athos clutching a letter he apparently had found in his pockets. It was stained with blood and Athos’ hands were shaking violently. 

“What is it?” Porthos asked. 

“They were kind enough to leave a message,” Athos answered, his voice barely more than a whisper. When he did not continue, Aramis gently pulled the letter out of his hands and quickly soaked in the words written on it. 

“They have d’Artagnan,” he explained to Porthos. “They have stolen the gold. They want us to return back to Paris. They’ll sent d’Artagnan after us as soon as they can be sure we are not hunting them down. It says that the gold rightfully belongs to them, and not to the King.”

“Any indication where they are keeping d’Artagnan?” Porthos wanted to know. He was tense, ready to jump into action any second. Aramis knew that Porthos would tear apart every man standing between him and d’Artagnan if it weren’t for Athos and Aramis watching him closely. 

Aramis shook his head and inspected the piece of paper. 

“No but....wait.” He took off his bloodstained gloves and ran his fingers over the broken seal. “They’re definitely not the brightest thieves I’ve ever met.” 

“Get to the point, Aramis,” Athos commanded breathlessly. 

“The seal. Why the hell do they use a seal? And I just happen to know whose seal it is.”

“Then would you please enlighten us?” Porthos said impatiently. 

“It’s the seal of the family Duchont. They own a house not far from here, near the farm we just came from. They do possess a warehouse.” He grimaced. “Maybe they store the gold there.” 

“First, we get d’Artagnan back,” Porthos declared. “He should be our priority.”

Aramis nodded. “No argues about that.” He could feel Athos’ sceptic stare on him. “What?”

“I probably should not ask why you know whose seal that is, should I?”

Aramis grinned. “Better not.”

Athos grimaced in his pain and held out a hand, and Aramis knew there was no way he could talk Athos out of it now. Porthos supported his friend from behind as Aramis carefully lifted him off the ground and into a standing position. Even Athos could not suppress a pained cry, and he bent over, trying to catch his balance. 

“Athos, that wound on your shoulder is serious. You should really take it easy,” Aramis advised. Porthos backed him up.

“You lost a good amount of blood. It’ll take days until you can move your shoulder normally again.”

“For God’s sake, stop hovering!” Athos complained with a dangerously low voice, glaring at his friends with discomfort.

“Stop being stupid, Athos!” Aramis tried hard not to yell. “If you decide to jump into action now, it might prove fatal. And you can’t even walk without help.” Athos indeed swayed dangerously, probably because of the concussion and the blood loss.

“Leave that to me to decide,” Athos growled. 

“Your stubbornness will be your death someday, my friend” Aramis retorted sharply, gently pushing the swordsman against the tree. “Have some faith in us. We’ll get him back. But you are not fit to help.”

“In fact, you’d probably just impede our plan,” Porthos added. He knew it was harsh, but Athos needed the truth. The musketeer’s natural sense for the truth, as hard as it was sometimes, was a gift and a curse at the same time. He had a thing for showing no empathy, as he was always judging based on what was true, but at the same time, he valued it as a high virtue. 

Athos, who was looking quite unsteady on his legs, finally nodded. “I trust you two.” 

Aramis tried to hide his surprise. He knew deep inside that Athos had long ago accepted their bond of brotherhood, though he never showed it that openly thanks to his rather reserved personality, but to hear him admit it still warmed his heart. 

“Alright, so, I have a plan,” Aramis declared, biting his lip nervously. “But it’s not the smartest one, probably.”

“Oh great,” Porthos muttered and holstered his pistol. “How many of our stories do start with you having a plan?”

“You’re exaggerating,” Aramis defended himself. 

“He’s not,” Athos threw in dryly, as he shifted slightly to escape the pain in his shoulder. “I keep a list.”

-MMMM-

“Of all the things we could possibly have planned, this is probably the stupidest move we could’ve come up with,” Porthos muttered. 

“Thanks, Porthos, I’ll call you Athos from now on. Your lack of enthusiasm competes with his.”

“Nah.” Porthos raised a placating hand. “I’m not even half as good as he is.” He winked at Aramis, probably trying to cover the worry they both felt. They had left Athos with the horses, giving the injured musketeers enough weapons so he could defend himself. Still, they had insisted that he should keep his head low. He was barely able to stand on his own. It’s been about three hours since they had found him, and sun was almost gone, making it harder for them to see what they were about to do. 

They had the house where the attackers were staying in sight, and they had already discovered a loudly complaining d’Artagnan, who had been brought from the main house over to the stables. 

“You are aware that this plan pretty much puts a target on our backs, right?” Porthos asked again. 

Aramis rolled his eyes. “Please, Porthos, I thought we were supposed to have faith. All we have to do is get d’Artagnan out, then attract some attention and run as fast as our feet carry us.”

Porthos snorted. “Well, you had enough angry husbands running chasing you. It’s just another day, heh?”

“Exactly.” Aramis pulled out his main gauche, and prepared his pistol in the other. “Ready?”

“Born ready,” Porthos replied grimly and they just wanted to start approaching when a loud scream interrupted the silence of the evening and suddenly, the stable gates flew open. A horde of huge, agitated horses ran out into the wild, trampling down everything within their path. 

And, even with the little light given to them, they could make out a figure sprinting towards them. Both musketeers rose from the ground and prepared his weapons. Aramis let out a sigh of relief when he recognized his lost friend, who did not seem too content with seeing them here.

“What the hell are you doing here?” d’Artagnan panted as he rested his arms on his knees, trying to catch his breath. 

“Uh...rescuing you?” Porthos tried, still surprised by the sudden change of the situation. A bullet wheezed through the air and missed Aramis only by inches, lodging itself in the sticky ground next to them. 

“Well, RUN!” d’Artagnan ordered and the musketeers did not need to be asked twice. They turned on the heel and Aramis dragged d’Artagnan into the right direction, because the Gascon had no idea where Athos was supposed to be waiting for them. Aramis could hear Porthos cursing vividly, but he did not have the time or the breath to scold his friend now for taking the lord’s name in vain. 

The three of them made their way up the slope, the screaming of the men and the gunshots in their backs. 

“What the hell did you do?” Porthos shouted over the riot. 

“I might have impaled one of those brutes with a pitchfork,” d’Artagnan shot back.

“Not exactly how I wanted our plan to get going, but this should work too,” Aramis grinned. 

“Well, _excuse me_ ,” d’Artagnan looked insulted and cursed as he almost tripped. “I was merely trying to facilitate your rescue.”

Porthos’ quick-witted response got lost in the noise. Near the path, they almost ran into Athos. The swordsman was holding himself upright by clutching onto his horses’ mane. They had no time to mount the horses. Aramis quickly slung his friend’s arm over his shoulder and dragged him with them. Athos paled visibly and bit down a grunt of pain, and Aramis grimaced. 

“Apologies, but the plan got a little out of hand,” he explained. He chose to ignore Athos’ glare and simply continued to go as fast as possible behind Porthos and d’Artagnan.

“Stop!” a voice called from behind and as he turned around, he could see the barrel of a gun aimed at him. With a quick side-glance at Porthos and d’Artagnan, he realized that they were surrounded. The attackers formed a circle around the four musketeers. Porthos had his pistols in his hands, and d’Artagnan had grabbed Aramis’ pistol and aimed at no one particularly. Aramis himself had no free hand, as Athos was leaning more and more onto him. The whole ordeal had taken its toll on the injured musketeer. 

A man now emerged from the lines of the attackers. He was tall and slim, the oversized coat hanging loosely over his shoulders. His grey hair was cut short, his beard on the other hand wild and untended, underlining his scary, dark eyes.

“D’Artagnan, would you mind to introduce us?” Aramis asked as casually as he managed. 

“Yes, _d’Artagnan_ ,” the man added. “Who do I have the pleasure to meet here?”

“Athos, Aramis, Porthos,” the Gascon replied, grinding his teeth. “That’s Rafard Lefevre.”

“Lefevre?” Porthos sounded surprised. “Related to ...?”

“Yes,” Rafard interrupted. “Florian Lefevre’s brother, pleasure to meet you and so on. Could we skip that part and now return to business?”

“Which would be?” Athos asked matter-of-factly.

“The gold. It belongs to me. Leave us alone.”

“We never intended to harm anyone,” another man added. Aramis identified him as the leader of the ‘farmers’ who had ambushed them earlier that day.

“Was that before or after you decided to plunge your blade into my comrade’s flesh?” Porthos asked sourly, murdering Rafard with his eyes. Athos’ head was hanging low, Aramis wasn’t even sure he was conscious right now judging by the amount of weight he was carrying right now.

“A necessary measure and one I deeply regret,” Rafard answered. 

Porthos snorted. “Sure. You’re pirates, and you’re trying to tell me that you regret almost killing someone?” 

“How can you be so calm?” Aramis heard d’Artagnan’s hiss to Porthos in his back. 

“Keep your voice down, lad,” Porthos whispered.

“My brother was one of the most famous pirates in this area,” Rafard spit out sourly. “That doesn’t make me a pirate. But thanks to my blood-right, his gold belongs to me.”

“And what do you all gain from this?” d’Artagnan addressed the other men. They did not look like a threat. They were still common farmers. 

“They just know that my brother’s ghost will come for them, as well as the ones of his entire crew, who were so mercilessly executed all these years ago. They fear their wrath.”

“So, you all are not even getting the gold?” d’Artagnan addressed the farmers again, but Rafard was the only one who chose to answer him. 

“Of course not. They are helping me because they do believe that the King is a thief and does not deserve this treasure.”

Porthos laughed dryly. “The King is a thief? What about your brother? He stole all of it in the first place. He stole from innocent people, and enslaved them to his mercy.”

“Would you mind leaving Florian out of this? It’s getting boring,” Rafard sighed. 

“He was a criminal,” Athos spoke up. Aramis was surprised to hear his voice. “He was executed twenty-eight years ago. Don’t try to justify his actions.”

“I’m not,” Rafard answered. “But the King tries to steal from me what’s mine. Florian wanted me to have it! So, you can go home to your beloved Paris now, or I’ll have to take different measures.”

“Really?” Aramis chuckled, a self-confident grin on his face. “’cause I do believe we do have the high ground here.”

He could feel d’Artagnan’s doubtful look piercing him from the side, but he chose to ignore it and focused on keeping Athos upright. 

“Just accept it, musketeers, you are mercilessly outnumbered.”

“Are we?” Porthos countered. “’Cause I swear I think someone’s been retrieving all of the gold out of your warehouse while you are busy chasing us.”

“What are you talking about?” Rafard asked, until suddenly, a line of riders appeared behind them, their arquebuses ready to fire. The city guards of Calais. Aramis and Porthos had met up with them, and worked out a short plan. The musketeers were supposed to distract Lefevre and his men, while they would clear the warehouse and rejoin them shortly after. 

“Rafard Lefevre.” A voice spoke up, one that was full of authority, and Aramis watched the head of the city guards on top of his horse and in his shining armour. He had a pistol aimed at Rafard, who was murdering the musketeers with his eyes, but had his hands already up in the air in his defeat. “You are arrested. Drop your weapon.”

Aramis felt Athos slumping against him, and he quickly called d’Artagnan over. The Gascon exchanged a worried look with Aramis, then he helped to take Athos’ weight. The swordsman was mumbling something that sounded like “I’m fine”, but his lips pinched in pain spoke of something different entirely, as did the blood stained bandage around his shoulder. 

“Watch out for the shoulder,” Aramis softly said to d’Artagnan. Porthos was helping to arrest Rafard, who did not even try to struggle. 

“Musketeers!” The head of the city guards towered over them. “What do you suggest we do with all these men?” Aramis almost felt embarrassed that he was asked his opinion in this matter, and he was glad that Athos spoke up first. 

“Let them go,” he panted and thrust his head backwards to get his hair out of his face. “They are just victims. They deserve a second chance.” 

Aramis could hear the surprised sound the assembled men made. They had not expected mercy. 

“Very well,” the city guard replied. “I’ll await you in Calais. We’ll talk about the details there.” He nervously glanced at Rafard. “Let’s just hope that Lefevre’s ghost   
finally leaves these people alone.” He tipped his hat and together with their new prisoner and the other guards, they rode down the street leading to Calais. 

Aramis and d’Artagnan helped Athos over to their horses, and the swordsman gratefully leaned against the animal. 

“You good?” Porthos asked his friend, and Athos simply gave him a brief nod.

Aramis let out a breath he did not know he was holding. “Wow. We really were lucky.” 

Athos scowled, clutching his injured shoulder, but some colour had returned to his face. 

“Speak for yourself.” D’Artagnan grunted in agreement and Porthos chuckled. 

Aramis’ face turned serious again. “Come on. After all of this, we really need some rest.”

Athos closed his eyes briefly, but he nodded and accepted the help Porthos gave him in mounting his horse again. The day had taken a surprised turn. It’s not every day that you get to battle the brother of a pirate long gone, fighting over who deserves the gold and who doesn’t. But they all survived, mostly in one piece. 

“By the way,” Athos spoke up and glanced at Aramis. “What did you do to my brandy?”

Aramis’ eyes widened and he faked a shocked expression, before he dug his heels into his horses’ flanks and together, they made their way towards Calais.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for reading! A shorter tale coming next.
> 
> The idea for this plot came to me after randomly reading about a northern german folklore about a (real) pirate called Klaus Störtebeker, who raided the north sea coast in late 14th century. I just created a fictional French version. 
> 
> (Wikipedia) In 1401, Störtebeker and his crew were captured and brought to Hamburg, where they were tried for piracy. Legend says that Störtebeker offered a chain of gold long enough to enclose the whole of Hamburg in exchange for his life and freedom. However, Störtebeker and all of his 73 companions were sentenced to death and were beheaded on the Grasbrook. The most famous legend of Störtebeker relates to the execution itself. Störtebeker is said to have asked the mayor of Hamburg to release as many of his companions as he could walk past after being beheaded. Following the granting of this request and the subsequent beheading, Störtebeker's body arose and walked past eleven of his men before the executioner tripped him with an outstretched foot. Nevertheless, the eleven men were executed along with the other 62 men of the crew.


	8. Rain of a Thousand Flames

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Athos and Porthos return from a mission and are about to meet up with d'Artagnan and Aramis, they learn that their two friends are rescuing people out of a burning house.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one is set after S3 Ep6. A little dark, maybe.

__

_“You might want to think twice before you try to use a man's conscience against him. It may turn out he doesn't have one.” - Brent Weeks, the Black Prism_

**Near Beauvais, Northern France, 1636**

“What an ungrateful idiot,” Porthos was complaining. “Seriously, as if we did not have anything better to do than deliver him whatever the King’s up to these days. And all he cares about is the dirt of our boots on his marble floor.”

Athos, who was riding next to his giant friend, snorted with a hint of amusement. “Good thing you don’t have to participate at the court’s politics. If this upsets you, I don’t want to know what you would do there.”

Porthos grunted in agreement. “That’s why I leave that kind of work to you. Tell me who to punch, and I’ll do it gladly, but spare me the hypocrisy of the aristocracy.”

Athos just raised an eyebrow and steered his gaze back to the path they were travelling.

“You think Aramis and d’Artagnan finished their task?” Porthos was eager to keep the conversation going, probably only so he wouldn’t get too bored on their way back to Beauvais. 

Athos just shrugged. “It’s not that hard to accompany Madame Chaurnet and her husband to a meeting and back to their residence. What could possibly go wrong?”

Porthos laughed audibly. “Their mission sounds far more appealing to me than ours. Aramis probably managed to charm the Madame, just to gain more pleasures from their journey.”

“The woman is married, Porthos,” Athos pointed out.

Porthos snorted. “And? So was the Queen. Didn’t hold him back either.”

“Time passed. I doubt that’s something Aramis would to these days.” Athos really did not want to talk about this any longer than he had to. He was glad Porthos and Aramis sorted out their differences, but after all this time, he still had a hard time to adjust to the fact that none of them were the same persons they used to be a couple of years ago. 

“No, you’re right,” Porthos admitted, having noticed Athos’ irritated tone. “I’m just teasin’ him.”

“Perhaps try to do that when he is actually present, Porthos.”

“Yeah. Noted.”

They travelled on in silence, and Beauvais was finally revealing itself behind the hill. And with it came a smell, a smell that stung and burned in his nose. Fire.

“Athos!” That was Porthos’ worried voice, and the swordsman followed his friend’s gaze and could see a dark tower of thick smoke forming over a building in the outskirts of Beauvais. Without thinking twice, the two musketeers dug their heels into their horses’ flanks and galloped down the path. Some citizen ran towards them, screaming in fear and crying for help. 

“Messieurs, Wait!” A boy, maybe sixteen years old, crossed their paths and Athos managed to pull at the reins last second so his large Friesian wouldn’t run the boy over.

“You can’t...there...” The boy bent over, and rested his hands on his knees. 

“Speak up, lad,” Porthos commanded, the anxiety evident in his voice. “We are tryin’ to help.” Athos and Porthos both had to leave their musketeer pauldrons behind, safe and sound in d’Artagnan’s trustworthy hands, for the sake of letter they had just delivered. The boy did not recognize them as musketeers. 

“We’re musketeers of the King,” Athos added in a calm, comforting voice. “What’s going on?”

The boy’s eyes widened slightly and he looked at them with scepticism, but he started waving into the direction of the fire. 

“Someone set the shop of the blacksmith on fire. There are people in there! Please, you have to...”

“On it,” Porthos interrupted and he spurred his horse into action and took off towards the building. Athos had some troubles steering his horse towards the flames and the smoke, but he eventually arrived just as Porthos was dismounting. 

“Wait, Porthos!” Athos commanded, using his captain-voice. The musketeer looked back, impatient and with a hint of anger, but he obeyed until the moment his eyes caught sight of a woman standing a few feet away from them, her hands clasped in front of her mouth in shock. 

“What’s Madame de Chaurnet doing here?” Athos hissed, trying to ignore the growing concern in his guts. The two of them approached her hastily, and the moment her gaze fell on them, she ran towards them and almost collided with Porthos. 

“Thank God you arrived!” she exclaimed while her husband slowly but surely walked up behind her. “They need help! They’re...”

“Who?” Athos cut in sharply, grabbing the high-born lady a little too hard by the shoulders. She fortunately did not seem to mind, though Athos noticed her husband staring at him from behind with a look that spoke of sincere disgust. 

“Your musketeers, Captain. We were told something about children in the building’s basement...and your men took over the situation here.”

“The children keep coming out of the building, but they really need help!” her husband threw in helpfully from behind, apparently putting his personal issue with Athos aside for the moment. 

“Damn it!” Porthos cursed and turned on the heel, heading towards the house where the flames were already devouring the wood by the window. Athos was right next to him, eager to help his friends. It seemed like not only there were children in the house, but Aramis and d’Artagnan as well. 

The two men did not get very far, as they were violently pushed back by a heavily armoured city-guard, that watched over the entrance with a grim look on his face. 

“Stay out.”

“They need us. There are still people in there!” Porthos yelled and the only reason he wasn’t at the man’s throat right now was because of Athos’ firm grip around his arm. 

“We have our orders. Any man going in there could mean one more casualty. Don’t risk your life so foolishly, everything is under control.”

“Oh yes?” Athos hissed with all the authority he could muster. “Then tell me why you are out here and there are children trapped in the burning basement?” 

The guard seemed genuinely unimpressed. “There are musketeers in there, they are dealing with the situation. The orders they gave us were quite clear.”

“Yes, and I am their Captain,” Athos growled and threw his cloak around his shoulders so the guard could catch a glimpse of his weapons. “You’d be very wise to let me pass now.”

“Cap...Captain Athos, I’m sorry I...” Athos rolled his eyes and roughly pushed him out of the way. 

“Get the children as far away from here as you can. Nobody gets any closer than thirty feet, understood?”

The guard nodded eagerly and started to follow his instructions. Athos and Porthos on the other hand ran over to the entrance. Porthos was wrapping his bandana around the lower part of his face, and Athos used his scarf to shield himself from the poisonous air. Internally, Athos was cursing how d’Artagnan and Aramis could so foolishly risk their own lives, but on the other hand, he knew that if the situation was reversed, he and Porthos would’ve done the same thing. There were many questions left unanswered, for example what in God’s name children were doing in the basement of a blacksmith’s shop, but Athos had his priorities set, and so did Porthos. 

A quick look into the building gave Athos all the information he needed for now. The area around the entrance was mostly still untouched, but the flames and the fire were mercilessly raging in the opposite part of the room, devouring the wood and the curtains, destroying everything within its path. The thick smoke was hanging over the floor like fog, and Athos was barely able to make out the sound of a children’s voice over the loud crackling of the fire. 

Still, before he was able to do anything, a young man ran towards him, carrying a young boy, approximately four or five years old, in his arms. Athos recognized d’Artagnan under the layers of sweat, soot and a tiny bit of blood. The Captain wasn’t sure his young companion even acknowledged his presence. He merely handed the child over to Porthos and ran right back in, one arm drawn up to cover his mouth. 

“Wha...” Porthos’ protest got lost under the immense noise of the fire, and Athos gestured him to get the child out and wait for further instructions. Meanwhile, he ran after d’Artagnan, and he found him bending over a square hole in the ground. A wooden ladder, that thanks to some miracle hadn’t caught fire yet, led downstairs. The room they were in as well as the basement seemed to be on fire, mostly the wood on the walls as well as the wooden shelves where the blacksmith seemed to store...books? Books in a secret basement under a forge? No wonder it was burning like tinder. 

Athos put his questions aside for the moment and made himself known by putting a hand on d’Artagnan’s shoulder, drawing the man’s attention towards him.   
The Gascon looked up with watery eyes, and Athos also could feel the smoke stinging in his eyes already, making them tear up. 

“How...many?” Athos tried to shout over the mix of fire crackling, broken furniture falling to pieces as well as children screaming in fear. 

D’Artagnan managed something that looked like a half-shrug and he pointed downstairs. Athos followed his gaze and his eyes fell on their fourth member, Aramis, who was clinging onto the ladder while using the same arm to prevent the smoke from getting into his mouth, while he lifted a young girl up with the other. Athos did not need explanations; he just took the girl by the hand and pulled her upwards, before placing her in d’Artagnan’s arms. His young friend nodded and stood up, staggering towards the exit with the girl in his arms. 

Athos wanted to climb down the ladder to help Aramis, but the marksman just raised a hand, to signal the Captain to stop. 

“How many?” Athos yelled and he wasn’t quite sure at first whether his words had managed to reach his friend’s ears. Aramis was coughing violently into his sleeve but jumped back on the hot tiles. As Athos watched the flames, he could see that there were lines of fire, very unnaturally forming a weird labyrinth on the basement’s floor. Like lines of alcohol perhaps.

The smoke was beginning to reach through the scarf Athos had wrapped around his mouth and nose, and through the tears in his eyes, it was hard to see. 

Aramis held up two fingers, as he did not have the strength in the voice to speak and answer Athos’ question. Two. Two children yet to be rescued, at least that’s what Athos interpreted. He could feel someone approach from behind and he noticed d’Artagnan had returned to his side. Athos was angry that he had returned in his condition, and he had no idea how the Gascon had succeeded in making Porthos stay behind, but that was not of importance right now. As he looked down again, he could see Aramis avoided getting hit by a burning beam that fell from the ceiling, or, seen from Athos’ level, falling from the floor. The marksman stumbled backwards, gesturing violently for someone to come down. If Aramis admitted he needed help, things were really serious, Athos thought. 

The captain could feel d’Artagnan next to him jump into action, but Athos declined him the possibility of helping Aramis. D’Artagnan looked hurt, exhausted and close to passing out. He would be no help down there, besides, someone had to stay upstairs. Athos just placed a hand on d’Artagnan’s chest and shook his head, before he more or less elegantly joined Aramis in the basement. 

The heat in here was excruciating. Athos squeezed his eyes shut against the heat floating through the poisonous air and he only opened them when he heard a scream. Athos’ eyes searched for Aramis, but the marksman was only a few feet away, and about to collapse to the ground. Athos’ heart screamed to come to his friend’s aid, but he saw the two children waiting near the ladder, tears streaming over their faces and sheer terror in their eyes. Athos jumped towards them, and in his rush of adrenaline, he picked both of the young kids up and handed them up to d’Artagnan, who was now supported by Porthos’ concerned and tense face. The big musketeer pulled the children up with ease and disappeared shortly after, probably to bring them into safety. 

“Is that all?” Athos’ voice was cracking with the effort of drowning out the other noises, but he knew that Aramis could hear him. He rushed towards his friend and stopped his complete descent to the ground just in time. “Aramis?” he asked again. He just needed to know that there were no more civilians down here. 

“Eve....sa....”Athos did not understand all of the rasped words that Aramis managed to get out between his coughs, but he guessed that it meant that they had gotten everybody out. Everybody was safe. Well, except for Athos and Aramis, who were still in a room where the ceiling threatened to come down on them any second. And if the flaming wood would actually rain down on them, there was nobody left who could save them. 

Athos pulled Aramis up by his arms and shoved him towards the ladder, still fighting against the raw sensation that had settled in his throat. The marksman was shaking terribly, and he winced as Athos pushed him up, steadying him with his arms. To his relief, d’Artagnan had enough strength left to pull Aramis up, and both of them crumbled to the ground. 

Athos cursed internally and though he also felt his own strength being consumed by the heat and the smoke, he climbed the ladder as quickly as possible. Aramis wasn’t moving, but d’Artagnan was propping up on his palms, his glassy eyes looking for Athos. The Captain could hear the wood creaking awfully behind him and as he shot a concerned look towards the bright flames, he was convinced the basement wouldn’t have a ceiling for much longer.

He grabbed Aramis’ arm and threw it around his shoulder, and though the marksman seemed to be mostly out of it, he still managed to take some steps. D’Artagnan scrambled to his feet with all his remaining strength and led the way for Athos, before he more or less ran into Porthos who managed to catch d’Artagnan just in time as he lost balance. 

Athos made a slightly rude gesture towards Porthos to signal him that everybody should get out, and Porthos did not need to be told twice. He held d’Artagnan upright by the shoulder and dragged the younger companion outside and into the fresh and satisfying air, Athos followed with Aramis and dragged his motionless body as far as possible, until he too collapsed to the ground and they both landed on the leaf-covered earth. Porthos lowered d’Artagnan next to them and he, having inhaled not too much of the smoke, started shouting orders at the guards. 

Athos sat up and tried to soak in everything around him, to assess the situation. There was still a huge crowd around them, watching with shocked expressions on their faces. They were being held back by the guards. A quick look towards the burning building told Athos it was beyond saving, there was no use in fighting the fire. Fortunately, the blacksmith was isolated from the other buildings, so the fire should not spread. D’Artagnan was writhing on the ground, his body trembling violently and his lungs trying to exhale the smoke through one coughing fit after the other. Porthos was there trying to steady him, one hand stroking soothingly over his hair. 

Aramis on the other hand barely moved, but his eyes were wide open, and he was gasping for the pure air. 

“Water!” Athos yelled to nobody in particular, but he knew that there were enough people around them so that somebody would be able to help. Within seconds, he could feel the presence of a woman by his side, and he recognized her as Madame Chaurnet, a man with a blacksmith apron by her side. Probably the owner of this burning pile of wood. 

Madame Chaurnet handed him a bottle of water and Athos poured it over Aramis’ head and neck, before the marksman grasped it and took two deep sips out of the bottle. He then curled up on one side, gasping and retching, and he pressed one hand on his bloodied shoulder. Porthos to Athos’ right was taking care of d’Artagnan, who seemed to calm down a bit. But he was desperately digging his fingers into Porthos’ jacket, wheezing something Athos had a hard time understanding what it was. 

“Did...everybody....out?” Porthos threw a concerned look towards the children, who all showed similar symptoms as his friends, but they seemed to be mostly unharmed. 

“Yeah, yeah I believe you saved everyone,” Porthos mumbled and gently patted d’Artagnan’s cheek. “You did it, brother. Everybody’s safe.”

Athos was keeping a firm hand on Aramis’ shoulder, waiting until the marksman was able to get some air into his lungs. Then, he stood up, and turned towards the blacksmith, his face like stone. 

“Are you the owner of this building?” Athos asked matter-of-factly. 

The blacksmith nervously shifted from one foot to the other. “Yes, Capt...eh, Sir. Or better I was.”

Athos curled his lips and nodded slowly. “Alright. Then I suppose you can explain why you had a bunch of children in your basement?”

“I can, Captain.” His mannerisms and his concerned looks towards the still recovering musketeers led Athos to the conclusion that the blacksmith did not have any crimes to hide. He straightened up. “I am...was the owner of this shop, selling my swords and daggers in the upstairs room.”

“And downstairs?” Porthos threw in from the side, still holding a comforting hand onto d’Artagnan’s arm, as the Gascon slowly started to sit up.

“My wife she...” The blacksmith cleared his throat nervously. 

“If your conscience is clear, you should not fear the Captain’s judgment,” Madame Chaurnet explained calmly, and Athos was surprised she was helping him here. 

The blacksmith nodded. “My wife taught the children how to read, and how to write. Her father was a scribe, you know, and she passed it on to the children of those who cannot afford the necessary education. That’s why they were down there.”

Athos raised a questioning eyebrow. “And why was it so hard to tell me?”

The blacksmith bit his lip. “It’s not exactly an official school. The guards have caused trouble more than once, saying I should not interfere in those affairs. I was afraid you would...” He stopped halfway through the sentence and looked to d’Artagnan and Aramis, who were slowly but surely aware enough of their surroundings to participate in the conversation.

“I don’t know what reputation the musketeer regiment has here, but I assure you I have no intention of getting you into trouble for educating children,” Athos explained matter-of-factly.

The blacksmith bowed his head and clasped his hands together in gratitude. 

“Do you have any idea who could’ve done this?”

“I’ve seen him,” a sharp voice joined their discussion. Athos turned his head and looked at the elderly woman who had spoken. 

“And you are?” Porthos wanted to know.

“Messieurs, that’s Céline, my wife.”

Céline did not waste any time on polite gestures, she got straight to the point. Athos liked her already. 

“This was a planned assassination. Someone wanted to see either us and the kids or your musketeers dead.”

“What do you mean?” Athos was getting really worried. “Tell me everything you saw.”

Céline nodded, her arms folded in front of her chest. “You see, there was this man visiting my husband’s shop around noon. The kids hadn’t arrived yet. He claimed that he wanted to have a look on my books, so I let him. When he did not return, I went downstairs to look, but he disappeared. Later that day, the children came to learn....I was upstairs for a few moments because I needed to fetch something, when I heard the screams and smelled the fire. It must’ve been this man. He planned all of this.”

“Alright, that explains why you think he was after you and the children,” Porthos said. “But what makes you think he was after us?”

“I don’t know about you two,” Céline explained and pointed at Porthos and Athos. “But your two musketeers here arrived shortly after the fire broke out. They told me to stay outside, so I did. And once they were inside, I witnessed how the very same man tried to block the entrance of our shop, so nobody would be able to escape the flames.”

“Tried?” Aramis rasped. This seemed to be all news to him. 

“I threw my axe at him.” The blacksmith showed no sign of remorse or regret. 

“You thre...you...?” Porthos looked so impressed he didn’t seem to believe it truly. “And then he ran?” 

Céline grunted affirmative. “He did. You two arrived only moments later.” 

Athos’ had a strange feeling, and he just had to ask. “Do you recall how he looked like?” 

The woman grimaced. “Yes. He was an...uncomfortable man. Irascible, but dangerously composed at the same time. He freaked me out.”

“About my height?” Athos mercilessly interrogated. “Dark hair and beard? A scar on his forehead?” 

Céline furrowed her brow. “Yes, yes. A black cloak and a leathern armour. Shoulder long hair.” 

“Grimaud.” The word escaped d’Artagnan’s lips with so much disgust and hate it sparked Athos’ anger anew. Aramis just let his head sink back against the pillar. 

“We should’ve known,” he whispered. Athos was barely able to contain his anger. He knelt down between Aramis and d’Artagnan, and put a hand on each of them, but his eyes were focused on something only he could see. Grimaud’s face in front of his inner eye. What this man had already done, and he had done it without scruple. 

“I am glad you two are okay,” Athos spoke. “You did a magnificent job, my brothers.”

“What are we going to do about Grimaud?” d’Artagnan wanted to know, his eyes looking sternly at his Captain. “He already trapped me and Porthos once. Now this, with all those innocent people? He needs to be stopped!”

Athos straightened up, his calm face just a mask to cover the rage he felt inside. 

“We’ll return to Paris. If Grimaud wants us dead, he should dare to face all four of us together.”

“Are you sure it will end then?” It was Porthos who questioned Athos’ statement to everybody’s surprise. The big musketeer looked up, a gentle, but worried expression on his face.

“I know one thing for sure,” Athos said coldly. “Grimaud will pay for his crimes. I will not rest until the day his swords meets mine.”

And then he walked towards his horse, feeling his brother’s worried stares in his back.

-MMMM-

**Le bouclier rouillé, Paris, 1656**

“Oh God,” Gaulier choked out and was soothing his child on his lap. “And I complained about this murderer that gave me a real headache two years ago.”  
Brujon sighed. “Grimaud was like nothing I’ve ever seen.”

“I know about the Cardinal,” Rissé threw in absent-mindedly, his fingers stroking his cup. “But the Cardinal at least had a motive. And Rochefort?”

“A snake,” Gaulier declared. “A dangerous one, but one that fought for his own sake and survival. And Athos and the others knew that. But Grimaud?” He let out a deep breath. “I did not experience him firsthand, but from what I can tell, he was one of the most cold-hearted, violent bastards the musketeer garrison ever encountered.”

Brujon shuddered as he remembered Grimaud. And he remembered Athos, who also had a personal vendetta going against the man, and how Grimaud had turned all of their lives into hell.

“It was scary. Most of the times, we knew the enemy, or we knew men who were like the enemy. But this time?” He made a short pause. “This man had no morality, no humanity left.”

“The real question is, how do men become like this?” Rissé said bitterly. 

Brujon raised an eyebrow. “I don’t understand?”

“My father used to say, when a man sets a world on fire out of pure hate, he must’ve once embraced it deeply*.” Rissé scowled. “But well, no matter what, what Grimaud did...and all the things he tried to do...there’s just no excuse. No true explanation.”

“He’s gone now,” Brujon interjected, for the sake of Verde who was getting the looks of a scared puppy. “Grimaud has been almost killed twenty years ago.”

“There will always be men like Grimaud,” Gaulier said, his voice distant. “The question is whether they dare to face the musketeer’s wrath again.” 

 

*quote by Kurt Tucholsky


	9. Take me Home to where my Heart is

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Set between S2 and S3. When the war takes a drastic turn for the musketeers, they have to go through a plan nobody likes.

__

_“I once had a heart and it was true_  
but then it fled from me to you  
Take good care of it as I have done  
for now you have two and I have none.” –Unknown 

**Le bouclier rouillé, Paris, 1656**

“Just, by the way guys, has anyone of you seen Constance today?” Gaulier threw in out of nowhere. “I got used to not seeing the Captain much this week, but even Constance was mostly absent today.”

“Or you were just at the wrong places, my friend,” Rissé mumbled quietly. “’Cause I saw her this morning. She gave me quite a speech because I left the armory unlocked.”

Brujon raised an eyebrow. “Oh that was you?”

“I was in a hurry,” Rissé defended himself. “It appears I just forgot.”

“In a hurry to get to Madmoiselle Giselle?” Gaulier teased with a smirk. 

“I’m never tellin’ you anything ever again,” Rissé mumbled, obviously affronted. He glared at Gaulier. “Like ever.”

“Stop complaining, Rissé,” Brujon rolled his eyes and gently patted his friend’s shoulder. “We all had that lecture at least once. But, in all fairness, Constance has every right to be mad. There are true treasures in there.”

“I know,” Gaulier admitted. “She let me know quite precisely how unhappy she was last week with the chaos I caused in there.” 

Brujon scoffed. “Well you have to admit that chasing a thief down and challenging him to a fistfight in the goddamn musketeer armory wasn’t your brightest idea.”

“He asked for it,” Gaulier protested. “Constance was close to ripping my head off.”

“Oh, she slapped you?” Rissé asked gloatingly. “I thought you said she wouldn’t do that to you ‘cause she likes you so much.”

“No, but now I understand what Aramis meant when he talked about the beauty of a woman’s violence. Constance is its reincarnation.”

Rissé scowled. “Yeah, I don’t see it.”

“’Cause you’re scared of her.” Gaulier showed no mercy.

His friend just raised an eyebrow. “At least I am man enough to admit it.”

That shut Gaulier up really quick, but it was his son, Verde, who picked up the conversation again. 

“Maman always says that Madame d’Artagnan is a lifesaver. She calls her the anchor of the musketeers.”

Brujon granted the child a warm smile. “And your Maman is right. She has always been. The Captain and his wife…it’s always told to be such a fairytale.”

Rissé’s eyes shot up with interest. “Oh, it’s not?”

Brujon huffed a weak laugh. “Wow. You really are a terrible judge of character, Rissé, you know that?”

“Bite me,” Rissé retorted dryly and acted as if he wasn’t interested in the conversation anymore. 

“It’s not like in one of those fairytales you probably are familiar with, Verde,” Brujon explained. “Constance and d’Artagnan went through a lot. But their commitment to one another is what makes them so special. The Captain always told me she saved his life - even though she wasn’t even there.”

-MMMM-

**The Garrison, Paris, 1633**

“You got everything?” Constance asked for what it felt like the hundredth time.

D’Artagnan sighed. “Yes. It’s not like I am going on a trip. I doubt that I’ll need much of what the army can’t provide for me.” 

Constance scowled. “Alright, just making sure, you know.” Her voice trembled slightly and she quickly avoided d’Artagnan’s loving gaze. 

Today was a hard day for all of them. A week had passed since their wedding, and while other freshly married couples used the weeks after the ceremony to explore their new old bond through a journey together. 

“You’ll do a great job here. Everybody’s counting on you, I doubt you’ll get bored.” She grinned and smacked his shoulder lightly. 

“No pressure.” She tilted her head, thinking, and her face was somewhat melancholic. “It’s going to be fine. The cadets for sure will do a great job.”

“And I’m sure they’ll listen to you, don’t worry about that,” d’Artagnan threw in with a mischievous grin.

“Oh, I don’t worry about them listening to me,” Constance explained with a smirk. “The question is if they will focus on what matters.”

“You have my permission to punch them in the face if that’s what necessary,” d’Artagnan added with a smile. 

Constance laid a hand on his chest, a teasing grin playing around the corners of her mouth. “Oh, your permission,” she said slyly. “As if I would ask for it.”

D’Artagnan pulled her closer, and she gently caressed the side of his face, slightly wistfully. “That’s why I love you.”

And then she smiled broadly, her eyes shining with love and appreciation. 

“But you have my permission, Constance,” Athos’ voice echoed from behind his back, completely shattering the aura of calmness around d’Artagnan. 

“Well,” Constance said and saluted sarcastically. “You’re the Captain.”

Athos appeared next to d’Artagnan, looking at both of them with a mixture of amusement and skepticism. “I don’t know any person that could be more competent to look out for the garrison for me,” he explained with the hint of a smile on his face. “Besides, if you run into any trouble, you know that Tréville will always be there to help you.”

Constance nodded gratefully.

“Athos!” That was Porthos’ voice. D’Artagnan groaned, as more and more people came to disturb his farewell from his wife. But Porthos actually turned out to be d’Artagnan’s savior. 

“Athos, can’t you see they’re havin’ a moment there?” The big musketeer winked at d’Artagnan before he dragged Athos towards the horses. He turned his head again, facing into the Gascon’s direction. “You’re welcome!” he mouthed and d’Artagnan just rolled his eyes, before all of his attention returned back to his wife. 

All the amusement and self-consciousness vanished from her face, and for a moment, d’Artagnan was sure to see tears in her eyes. 

“Don’t worry about me,” he whispered and gently removed a lock from her face. “I promise I’ll write you whenever I can.”

She nodded, before she hastily wiped the tears from her eyes. “You better do.” She pressed her lips together. “Yes, no, I know,” she stammered. “It’s just…”

D’Artagnan closed his eyes briefly and sighed. “Yes, I know. Me too, Constance.”

She managed a sad smile, before she reached into her pocket, only to pull out a silvery necklace. She put it in her husband’s open hands and closed it gently. 

“It was a gift from the Queen when I entered her services. I know you are a fine warrior and all, but it’s supposed to protect you.”

D’Artagnan furrowed his brow and took a look at the necklace. It was a silvery looking chain with a red gemstone as a pendant. This was worth a lot. 

“I never thought you’d be someone to believe in…” He cleared his throat. “Well, something like this.” He held up the pendant.

“I don’t but please…just take it. As a reminder to come back to me.” 

D’Artagnan stowed it in an inner pocket of his jacket, close to his heart. “Thank you. I’ll treasure it.”

For a moment, the teasing and charming smile returned to her face. “Good. ‘Cause it’s the second most-valuable thing I have.”

D’Artagnan pulled her closer, completely ignoring the impatient staring of his friends behind his back. “And what most valuable thing be?” he asked teasingly.

Without hesitation, Constance put her arms around his shoulders and pulled him into a short, but passionate kiss, before she put her head on his shoulder, her face pressed against his own. He himself buried his nose in her locks, taking in her scent, her warmth, and all the love she basically radiated from her body. 

“I’ll come back to you,” he said into her ear. 

She let go of him and gazed at him lovingly, a proud smile mustering her lips. “I know you will.” She glanced at Athos and Porthos, who she had bid farewell to earlier, all ready to go on their horses. “And watch out for these two as well, will you?”

D’Artagnan winked. “Your wish is my command,” he said and took a ridiculous bow, before he quickly pressed one last kiss on her lips. Then he planted another one on her forehead before he let her go and mounted his horse.

“We’ll miss ya, Constance,” Porthos said sincerely and even Athos granted Constance one of his rare smiles. 

“Take care,” she said before her eyes locked on d’Artagnan again. “And you’ll remember the promise you gave me?” 

“I swear I will,” he replied. And then, with a heavy heart, he steered his horse out of the garrison’s gates and towards a war. He did not know how long it would take. He did not know what he would have to sacrifice, he did not know what this war could cost him. But one thing he knew for sure.

He’d walk through hell on earth to return to Constance.

-MMMM-

**Near Béthune, Spanish Netherlands, 1634**

The scent of blood and sweat still hung in the air, but for the first time in days, they did not hear any screaming. D’Artagnan and Porthos were sitting side by side next to a small campfire, together with the musketeers Dénis and Michel. They had been up tending to the wounded all day, and now they got some well deserved rest as other musketeers had taken over. 

They had learned to enjoy every moment, so now they were listening to Michel telling a hilarious drunk story about his brother-in-law and how he met Michel’s sister, who was now his wife. Porthos was enjoying the story audibly and handed d’Artagnan the bottle of wine they had stolen from Athos. The Captain himself had left for evening patrol a couple of hours ago and hadn’t returned yet, though he was unlikely to return before midnight. 

“You’re kidding, right?” Dénis was saying at the moment. “So it was you who actually had to arrest him then?”

Michel nodded. “I’m tellin’ ya. Got locked up for a week ‘til I managed to bust him out of it.”

Porthos laughed. “Well, your sister sounds like an interesting lady.”

“Why that?” Dénis wanted to know, and gratefully accepted the bottle of wine d’Artagnan offered him. 

Porthos grunted. “She married him after all, didn’t she?” The only answers he received were a raised glass from d’Artagnan and a disbelieving snort from Michel. 

“What about you, pal?” Dénis addressed d’Artagnan now, who was staring absent-mindedly at the campfire, as he did so often lately. 

“Well, what about me?” the Gascon retorted a little more aggressive than intended. 

“You told us that you’re married. How did you meet your wife?”

Porthos next to d’Artagnan had to chuckle. “He almost ran her over when he was fleeing from the guards, if I recall correctly.” Not exactly, d’Artagnan thought, but he was too tired to correct it. It was close. 

Dénis giggled, clearly not that sober anymore. “Ah, classic.”

D’Artagnan just warily raised an eyebrow. “Yeah, and afterwards, she saved my ass.” 

“Oh, did she?” Now Michel was interested too. 

D’Artagnan swallowed hard before he continued. “Shot the dude who was about to kill me.”

Dénis looked at d’Artagnan wide-eyed, before the movements returned to his body and he clapped joyfully. 

“Sounds like an extraordinary woman,” Michel admitted and lightly smacked d’Artagnan’s shoulder. 

The Gascon just took another deep sip from his bottle of water. “Oh, you have no idea.” He couldn’t hide a smile with the thought of Constance. Porthos was engaged in another conversation with Dénis, something about the Spanish officer they both battled two days ago, when they were all silenced at once. 

Hooves could be heard, at least five horses if d’Artagnan’s ears did not betray him. Out of reflexes, all of their hands flew to their pistols simultaneously, preparing for a battle that did not come. The camp guards would’ve rung the bells or something, so it had to be Athos. 

Fear gripped d’Artagnan’s heart at an instant. It wasn’t even close to midnight. Athos was way too early. 

Before he could waste another thought on what might possibly have happened, the Captain of the musketeers appeared within his eyesight. D’Artagnan let out a breath of relief he did not realize he had been holding. Athos appeared to be unharmed, but he had a worried look on his face. Athos never let his face show what he was feeling, not under normal circumstances. 

He wordlessly jumped from his horse, handed the reins to an unknowing soldier standing guard and made his way over to his tent. When he passed Porthos and d’Artagnan, he signaled them with a flick of his wrist that they should follow. 

D’Artagnan exchanged a brief, concerned look with Porthos, who just shrugged and hurried to keep up with Athos. When d’Artagnan arrived in Athos’ tent, he found Porthos leaning expectantly against a wooden pillar and Athos sunken on his chair, his hands buried in his dirty hair. 

“What is it?” d’Artagnan asked immediately, getting straight to the point. Porthos underlined the question with a clearing of the throat. 

Athos slowly lifted his head. The suspense was killing d’Artagnan. Whatever it was, Athos seemed to have a hard time processing it. Suddenly, the calm and stiff Athos was gone, and the Captain, in a sudden outburst of what looked like pure desperation, cleared his table of the maps, the wine, and the ink, shattering all of it in the grass below. 

“Athos,” Porthos tried again a little softer, but he wasn’t able to hide his worried tone. “Tell us.” 

“We’re…damned.” Athos spoke so quietly that d’Artagnan almost missed the words escaping his mouth. 

“What?” 

“It’s…” Athos sighed. “The Spanish troops have us surrounded. I don’t know how they got our exact location, but every man who used to be stationed in Béthune not so long ago is here now. We have nowhere to run.”

“How many?” Porthos asked matter-of-factly, trying to keep a clear mind. 

“Too many.” Athos’ answer was simple. He looked at his two friends, his eyes begging them to say something. 

“How long until they attack us?” d’Artagnan wanted to know. 

Athos leaned back in his chair. “A couple of hours, at most. They have blocked every route we could possibly use to escape.”

D’Artagnan was consumed by panic for a short moment. Panic due to a hopeless situation he was just thrown into. And panic because Athos just made perfectly clear that there was no way out of this. 

“Any chance that we can beat them in a battle?” Porthos was weighing all options.

Athos shook his head. “None at all. I think highly of my men, but we are only human. It would be a massacre.”

D’Artagnan started pacing, his hands clasped behind his back, his eyes roaming over the chaos Athos had just caused on the floor. 

“Then we have to act first,” he suggested, and stopped to look at his friend’s reactions. Porthos was lost in thought, but Athos grimaced. 

“That’s why I have called you here. Any ideas?”

D’Artagnan slowly raised a hand. “I have a plan.”

“No direct attack,” Athos admonished tensely.

“Alright, I don’t have a plan." 

Athos just shook his head in desperation and buried his face in his hands. The help came from Porthos.

“No, you know what, maybe d’Artagnan is right,” he threw in. “It’s the least they would expect from us.”

“It’s suicidal,” Athos countered dryly.

“If I had a livre for every time I hear you say that,” Porthos mumbled. 

“Have some faith in us, Athos,” d’Artagnan tried to convince his friend. “Until now, it worked perfectly fine. We always return.”

“There’s always a first time,” the captain insisted, his cold eyes wandering doubtfully over his two friends. “There has to be another way.”

Porthos folded his arms in front of his chest. “You have a better idea? We are surrounded. If we don’t do anything, we might as well just dig our graves ourselves.”

“I have the responsibility for a whole regiment!” Athos thundered in a sudden outburst of rage and desperation. “Every move I make has to be thought through. Everything else would be foolish.”

“We are running out of options!” d’Artagnan said as calm as possible and stepped up to Athos, one arm stretched out to touch his friend’s shoulder in a supportive manner. “Forward is our only way out. Once we make it through one line of enemies, all we have to do is watch our backs for as long as it takes to reach the next military camp.”

Athos sighed. “General Dumont is said to be about twenty miles west from here.”

D’Artagnan smiled reassuringly. “Then that’s where we are going.” He looked determined and Athos seemed to surrender. 

“Wait, you don’t really…” Porthos couldn’t believe what he heard. “Alright,” he continued and straightened up in front of Athos and d’Artagnan, like a parent preparing to scold his children. “I said forward is the right direction, but we’re going to need a little more than that.”

“How so?” Athos interposed calmly. 

Porthos looked grimly. “Considering the Spanish numbers, there’s no use in running. Why run today just to die another day? ‘Cause that’s what’s going to happen if all we can do is keeping them at our toes until we reach General Dumont. No they need to be distracted and forced to retreat.”

“And how do you plan on doing that?” D’Artagnan was too nervous to come up with an alternative, and Athos was obviously still worn out from the battle two days ago. It was a miracle he was still awake.

“We do what d’Artagnan suggested,” Porthos explained turned towards Athos. In the end, it was him he needed to convince. “A direct attack to break through their lines so we can run to General Dumont. When they are distracted with the battles, a troop of cavalry will head towards their fortress and organize a distraction there. A short attack on the castle could be enough so that they’ll order their army to come back.”

“It could work…” d’Artagnan said slowly. “At least, it could improve our chances.” Then both musketeers pierced their superior with their gazes, until Athos finally raised his hands in defeat and rose from his chair. 

“Well,” he growled and quickly put on his weapon belt. “Desperate times, no?”

Porthos let out a deep breath to calm his nerves. “Desperate times, indeed.”

Athos made a gesture with his hand. “Alright, you two go for the direct attack, I’ll lead the group to the Spanish fortress. We’ll meet up at General Dumont’s.” He hesitated for a moment, his eyes shimmering with pride and warmth, something that rarely reflecting in Athos’ face. He put an arm around each of his friends, their heads now close together. 

“Take care, my brothers,” Athos mumbled. “We shall see each other again.”

D’Artagnan gave his friends a reassuring smile and a soft pat on the shoulder.

And then he stormed out of the tent and started giving the orders. And the necklace, however, weighed even heavier in his pocket close to his heart. 

-MMMM-

**Later that night**

Two diversions. Two different diversions, one led by d’Artagnan and the other one led by Porthos. Thinking about it now, d’Artagnan cursed himself for the idea. It was absolutely nuts. He had a lot of faith and confidence in every man that was assembled behind him right now, but they were running into awaiting swords. He could see the Spaniards from here, all waiting for their orders to burn the French Camp down. But still, they had their eyes open, and were eventually prepared for an attack.

But if the alternative was to get slaughtered by an even higher number of Spaniards, he preferred to face them in a short, but probably brutal battle.   
Athos had left with a small group of cavalry. If he started the attack on the fortress soon enough, maybe the Spaniards retreated a lot sooner than they had anticipated. If they retreated at all. 

_I’ll come back to you. I swear._ His last words to Constance still echoed in his head, and the sword in his hand seemed to grow even heavier. He knew he had no choice here, but deep inside, he couldn’t dismiss the feeling that he was betraying this promise right now. 

He violently shook his head to dispel the thought. No. Faith is what they needed now. If Aramis had been here with them, he would’ve encouraged them. And that’s what d’Artagnan gathered now, for a split second. Courage. The courage to fight bravely or to die honorably. 

He looked over to the other side, about a two-hundred feet west of them, where Porthos was supposed to lead his group into the attack. D’Artagnan could feel the eyes of all the men behind him glued to his back, waiting for any kind of order. Everybody was filled in with the details, everybody knew about the whole situation. That they had been surrounded. Yet, no one hesitated when Athos had told them a short version of the plan. They put a lot of trust in their commander. 

The signal to attack came a lot sooner than he had expected. Suddenly, he heard a loud pistol shot echoing over the fields and then he witnessed Porthos’ group charging towards the lines of the enemy. 

Without thinking twice, d’Artagnan raised his hand and his men ran towards the Spaniards, who hectically drew their weapons in surprise. It had to go down quickly. They had to get behind the enemy’s lines so they could keep on retreating until the Spanish troops were called back. 

A pistol shot missed d’Artagnan’s head only by inches and by the sound of it, it lodged itself in the chest of a man behind him, who crashed on the ground with a gurgling sound. D’Artagnan screamed in frustration, raised his own firearm and managed to save Michel from an assailing enemy. Michel, who had been taken by surprise, returned the favor and thrust his sword into a Spaniard who appeared in d’Artagnan’s back. 

He had no time to thank his friend. His sword clashed with the ones of two enemies, but in as he did so, he tried to turn them to the opposite side, so he and his men would be able to make an escape. But it turned out to be harder than expected. D’Artagnan could see the other Spanish troops moving in the distance, and it wouldn’t be long until they were truly and mercilessly surrounded and outnumbered. 

It made him fight even more grimly, and more effectively. He successfully defeated five other men with a few, fluid motions, and then he finally had a short moment to catch his breath and assess the situation. Porthos had successfully turned the battlefield on his side, and d’Artagnan had almost done so as well. Some Spaniards already fled and called for the reinforcements that were stationed nearby. They had to get out of here, as soon as possible.

He heard a loud horn signal, whether it was French or Spanish, he did not know. And he had no time to worry about it either. His eyes caught sight of a dangerous weapon, a cannon, being hidden behind some ragged tents and bushes. And he saw the burning fuse shining bright in the blackness of the night. 

In an attempt to warn anybody, d’Artagnan grabbed the sleeve of Michel to pull him back, yelling a warning nobody was able to understand over the sudden noise.  
Then there was a loud bang, and a feeling of weightlessness as he could feel that he was thrown through the air, his hand still grasping Michel’s sleeve. The last thing he could feel was an intense pain in his shoulder as he stopped his fall with it, and a sickening scream he wasn’t sure who it belonged to, before darkness claimed him and pulled him under, leaving his men to an uncertain fate.

-MMMM-

_He felt like he was floating. He did not know where he was, where his body was, but his mind seemed to wander through an abandoned, white field, filled with familiar faces and memories he held close to his heart. It all just wheezed past him, from his first encounter with his brothers, to the time he was captured along with the King. But time stood still when his eyes caught very familiar, brown-reddish locks, and the all too familiar mannerisms of Constance, who was deep in a conversation with someone who d’Artagnan recognized as the Queen._

_He remembered this scene. He remembered having listened to their conversation, Constance trying to calm the Queen after the King had made a decision the Queen obviously hadn’t agreed on. Then suddenly, Constance turned around, took a quick bow in front of the Queen who just granted her a smile and left the room. Constance had spotted him. She graciously made her way over to him, and d’Artagnan couldn’t help but admire her beauty._

_A moment of uncomfortable silence, before he started the conversation he had so preciously saved in his mind._

_“So, how is it in the service of her majesty?” This conversation had taken place shortly after Constance had become one of the Queen’s closest advisors, and after she and d’Artagnan had gone through another phase of cruel heartbreak._

_“It’s good,” she answered a little sheepishly and nervously shifted from one foot to the other._

_“D’Artagnan!” Porthos’ voice reached his ears. Porthos had been there too?_

_“Later, Porthos,” he called over his shoulder, his eyes not diverting from Constance’s beautiful face for a second._

_She gave him a sad smile. “I thank you, d’Artagnan, I really do. It’s just…”_

_“Yeah, I know,” d’Artagnan interrupted. “I’m sorry if I caused you any inconvenience.” He made a short pause. That sounded too rude. “Will you answer me one question?”_

_She furrowed her brow and bit her lip in uncertainty. “Go ahead,” she whispered._

_“Are you happy?”_

_“I don’t…” She closed her eyes briefly. “I don’t understand.”_

_“It’s a simple question,” he insisted softly. “Are you happy?”_

_He could see the tears in her eyes, but her eyes shone with the love he knew she felt, but which she tried to deny him. And then, she brought a hand up to his face, her fingers stroking his cheek, her head almost resting against his._

_“I am now,” she simply whispered and d’Artagnan couldn’t resist to cup her face in his hands and place a gentle kiss on her forehead._

_“Come on, d’Artagnan, rise and shine!” Porthos’ voice again, and d’Artagnan was very sure he hadn’t been there during this moment. It must be something else. Something that tore him from this dream._

_“Porthos!” he turned around furiously to let out his anger, only to find…nothing. And when he looked back at Constance, she was gone too. And silence filled his ears, before he felt like falling again._

-MMMM-

D’Artagnan returned to consciousness with a gasp, and reality hit him as sharp as a bullet. The battlefield. The impact. He could feel that he was lying on grass and torn earth, and…was that a dagger? His eyes were still closed, but he as he lay here, fighting to catch his breath, he still saw Constance’s smiling face in front of his inner eye. And he felt the warmth of the pendant resting against his chest, while the rest of him seemed way too cold. There was someone trying to talk to him, that much he had figured, but his mind was too busy to process his dreams, and he soaked in every bit of memory he was granted. 

Everything felt so cold. But with the thought of her, of his one true love, there was a fire. A burning desire, consuming him from inside out. The longing for his wife, for her presence, for the feeling of her hands on his face. And damn, it hurt. It was a fire burning cold, filled with the icy sensation he felt the more distance there was between him and the woman he fought for so long. 

But it was this fire that kept him alive in times like these, where darkness and pain ruled the world. A fire that reminded him of his promise, and one he could never break. He fought his way up to the faint noise. Encouraged and warmed by the thought of her. 

Dull voices reached his ears. Voices, definitely calling his name, and he could feel hands trying to free him from whatever was lying on top of him.   
Slowly but surely, he dared to take a look at where he was, when he was. Who knew how long he was lying here. 

“Constance…,” he mumbled, his glassy eyes still trying to focus on anything. 

“Not quite.” That was Porthos’ voice. “My hair’s not half as fabulous as hers is.” A dry chuckle could be heard, then d’Artagnan felt a gentle slap against his cheek.  
“C’mon. Enough sleepin’, heh?” 

D’Artagnan blinked a few times and finally managed to focus on Porthos’ worried face. 

“There you go.” The big musketeer’s eyes were full of concern. “Are you hurt? What happened?”

“Michel…,” d’Artagnan rasped and tried to turn his head to he could check on his comrade, but Porthos stubbornly forced him to stay still. 

“Alive,” he explained and quickly glanced at whatever was going on in d’Artagnan’s back right now. “But injured. Still out of it.”

“What…”. D’Artagnan swallowed hard. His throat felt incredibly dry, and he his mind was fogged. It was hard to form the proper words. But with a friend like Porthos, words were not needed. 

“My group and I we managed to run for a mile when we met your men. The Spaniards indeed retreated, so Athos must’ve been successful.” He sighed. “The others told me they don’t know what happened to you.”

“And you…came back to me?” the words barely made it out of d’Artagnan’s mouth. 

Porthos looked seriously affronted. “You doubted that?” 

The Gascon managed a pained grin. “No, not really.” He closed his tired eyes again. “Doubt that I’ll ever be able to shake you off,” he mumbled, trying to sound sarcastic. 

Porthos chuckled while he tended to a wound on d’Artagnan’s arm. “You can count on that, pal,” he grunted and then carefully placed a hand in the Gascon’s neck.   
“Think you can stand?” 

D’Artagnan nodded slowly, but still gratefully accepted Porthos’ help. 

“Just askin’, you know,” Porthos continued. “You must’ve been out for multiple hours.”

D’Artagnan chose not to reply anything and wordlessly accepted Porthos helping him make one unsteady step after the other. 

It was still hard to focus, but slowly, everything returned to his awareness, but the pain did too. He was glad he had Porthos to lean on. 

“Athos?” he asked quietly. 

Porthos snorted. “Probably awaits us at General Dumont’s. We still have some way to go.” He made a short pause, casting a worried glance back to the battlefield. “And those Spaniards probably won’t be far once they learn that their fortress isn’t really in danger.”

“That was a genius plan, you know that, right, Porthos?” d’Artagnan said honestly and shot his friend a proud look. 

Porthos’ face was a mixture of embarassement and pride. “And you all still doubt that.”

D’Artagnan chuckled, but did not say another word, as he and Porthos, together with the other musketeer’s, made their way towards the camp of the General.  
He was relieved. Because he survived, and most of his men did too. They escaped their certain end again, and they would continue to do so for as long as it took. All he longed for was to feel Constance’s hands on his again, to hear her voice and to enjoy her laughter again. He would endure it all, because at the end of the day, he knew all his roads led to her, and she would be waiting at this cruel path’s end. 

No matter if it took a week, a month or a year. It did not matter anymore. He could feel her warmth against his chest, where he kept the pendant he gave her. It gave him strength, comfort and the will to do the right thing. 

Because in the hour of darkness, her light got him through.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was supposed to be a chapter dedicated to Constance and d'Artagnan, but I've never been really good at romance. Still, I hope you liked it. No Aramis in this one, but I promise, he will be part of the next chapters.
> 
> Béthune today is in northern France. I did some research and apparently, in 1634 it was under Spanish domination and belonged to their territory.


	10. Dawn of Victory

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Post Season 3. General Porthos returns to his troops only to find out that bandits have taken control over the area.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Takes place at the same time as chapter 6. War themes again.

 

 

_Rank does not confer privilege or give power. It imposes responsibility. – Peter Drucker_

**Le bouclier rouillé, Paris, 1656**

“What do you say? I’ve got money for one more bottle of wine, if you all want.” Rissé threw his pocket filled with coins on the table.

Brujon declined with a waving of his hand. “Nah, thanks. Not for me. But buy one, and give it to Porthos later. I’m sure he’ll see it as a good welcoming present.”

Rissé granted him a sceptical look, but he complied.

“He’ll appreciate it. Last I heard, he was called back to the front a couple of months ago,” Gaulier explained. “He for sure won’t decline a good tasting wine.”

“Still,” Brujon grumbled. “Don’t get me wrong, I’m just as excited as you are, but considering the Captain’s behaviour lately, I fear this visit has a good reason.”

“Or a bad one,” Rissé threw in helpfully, his eyes burning holes in the ground. Brujon just shot him a sour look.

“Either way,” Gaulier rescued both of them, “It’s good to have them all back together then. After hearing all these stories, my respect for them just increased even more.”

Brujon gave his best friend an acknowledging nod and raised his cup to his lips.

“What’s Porthos doing at the front?” Verde, who was tiredly sitting on Gaulier’s lap, asked. Brujon sighed, and Gaulier furrowed his brow.

“It’s war, son, you know that.”

Verde ignored his father, his green eyes rested on Brujon, a slightly frightened look on his face. “But, with Porthos as a General, we can win, right?”

Brujon sighed again and ran a hand through his hair, before he leaned back in his chair.

“I don’t know, kid. But I know that in the most brutal hours of the war, I thanked the Queen all over again.”

Rissé stared at him in confusion. “What? The Queen?”

Brujon just rolled his eyes and grinned. “’Cause she gave us Porthos as a General. And she could not have made a better choice.”

-MMMM-

**At the northern front, October 1641**

His back was aching, and the sweat was flowing freely over his forehead from the exhaustion. His beard had grown uncomfortably long, but over the past few weeks, he did not have the time to cut it. Now, it was itching all the time, but he had learnt to ignore it. They have been traveling for days now, and it had been seven hours since they had last taken a break.

Porthos sighed. They were on their way back from Rethel, where they had been sent to support the troops stationed there. The battle they had been expecting never happened, so after fifty days, Porthos had received order from Paris to return to their main camp again, a good distance into north-western direction.

They should arrive in less than three hours, that’s why they did not stop now. Porthos had left a group of fifteen men in charge of their camp, and he could not wait to return to them, and make sure they were safe.

He gently grasped his horses’ reins anew, and threw a quick look at Brujon, who was riding by his side, engaged in a very one-sided conversation with an officer called Lavrel. After the whole Gérard-incident, Porthos had been hesitant on taking Brujon back with him, but in the end, he did not have a say in it, and the young man had been eager to follow him into battle. He steered his gaze back towards his horses’ neck and his eyes locked on his bracers. The thin metal plate looked brutalized, but that was his own doing.

It had become a daily ritual to him. Every morning, when the sun rose at the horizon, he would take his dagger and carve in a little cross into his armour. Not necessarily to count the days, his men were using calendars. They always knew the date. No, he used it to count the days since he had last seen Elodie and Marie-Cessette. And everytime he returned to Paris, he would buy new bracers. He did it to process his longing for his wife and daughter, and also to remind him to never stay away too long. Not that he could actually make that decision, but still.

Right now, there were twohundred-fourteen little signs carved in the thin metal. Way too many for Porthos’ taste. He kept in touch with his wife through letters, but it wasn’t the same as actually having them in his arms.

He wrote to his brothers too, but because of their mobility, he wasn’t able to keep the letters after he had read them most of the times. The only one he always carried with him was the one from Athos he had received three years ago, where Athos told him about the birth of his son Raoul. Porthos felt like it wasn’t right to throw this piece of memory away. He hadn’t seen his friend in a long time, but for some reason, he always felt the presence of his brothers by his side.

“Sir?” That was the voice of Lieutenant Lavrel to his right. He was a man about Porthos’ age, and with every breath he took, he reminded Porthos of Athos. The similarities were enormous. Except for maybe Lavrels daily need of conversation and he missed Athos’ sense for focusing on the more important things at times.

Porthos turned his head and raised a questioning eyebrow.

“Hm?”

“Do you think the others are alright? We left them on their own for quite a long time.”

Porthos shrugged, his heavy armour clattering with the movement. “They’ll be fine. It seems calm here.”

Brujon joined in the conversation as well. “A little too calm, don’t you think?”

“I...” But Porthos did not get to finish his sentence. Whether it was an answer from above or just a call of destiny he did not know, but suddenly, they heard loud yelling, and the thundering of hooves over the hard forest floor.

Every man in his company drew their weapons in one movement and stopped the horses, and now over forty pistols were aimed at whatever was about to come around the corner. Within moments, they spotted a man, barefoot and with torn clothes running towards them. His eyes were wide open, but he kept running away from the three riders that followed him.

It took Porthos just a split second to assess the situation. The man was alone, and definitely vulnerable, while the three riders chasing him wore the unmistakable clothes of bandits. Porthos could see very clearly how their mouths opened in shock once they saw all the pistols, and they immediately pulled at the reins but in a full gallop, it was hard to bring the animals to stop.

He watched as one of them pointed his gun at the fleeing man, and that was the moment Porthos made his decision. A single flick of the wrist, and five pistol shots echoed through the forest. The riders fell off their animals and ended up in the dust.

The victim fell on his knees, breathing heavily. Porthos did not know how he had managed to outrun cavalry on foot, but here he was. And strangely, he did not seem to fear the huge crowd of soldiers that surrounded him now. He was reserved, and eyed all of them with scepticism, but he just seemed to be glad he was safe.

Porthos approached slowly and quickly checked the man for weapons or anything else that could impose a threat. Not that he could actually have a chance against Porthos’ company.

“Where ‘re ya from?” Porthos’ voice was firm, his face determined. He needed to know whether this man was dangerous after all. He received no answer, the man just kept gasping for air, not paying much attention. Maybe he wasn’t able to understand him.

“French?” Porthos asked bluntly. “Spanish? Swedish, Danish?”

“Eh...,” the man finally whispered and his eyes searched Porthos’ men for any indication of nationality. He froze when he saw the drapeau blanc one of the soldiers was carrying.

“You...French?” he asked, and Porthos could hear clearly that he did not speak French fluently. Porthos narrowed his eyes, every muscle in his body tense.

“Yes. My name is General du Vallon, commander in charge of the troops of his majesty, King Louis the Fourteenth, and her majesty the Queen Regent, Anne of Austria.” Porthos had learnt this introduction over the past years, and he did not like it, but it was the formalities.

“A General, huh?” the man breathed and briefly closed his eyes. “Forgive me, I would take a bow, but I fear I broke a rib or two.”

Porthos could not help but chuckle. A man with humor, it seemed. He stretched out a hand, and the man slowly took it, still very sceptical and held back.

“Kael,” he finally said. “My name is Kael Venzen.”

“So, Kael,” Porthos started and pulled the man to his feet. “You have some explanations to do. You’re not French, that’s obvious.”

Kael bit his lip in uncertainty, and nervously shifted from one foot to the other.

“Spit it out!” Lavrel called out. “If we’d wanted to kill you, we would’ve done so.”

Porthos shot his Lieutenant a warning glare, but Kael did explain himself.

“Forgive me. Me and my friends, we are some of the survivors from Dorsten.”

“Dorsten?” Lavrel repeated, curiosity evident in his voice. “The town near the Rhine?”

Kael nodded slowly.

“Last I heard, it was besieged by the Comte de Hatzfeldt,” Porthos explained. His opponent nodded again.

“It was.” His eyes were still glued to the multiple pistols still raised high, so Porthos commanded them to take the weapons down. This man was not dangerous. “They won, and they granted us free passage. For those who still lived.”

“And then what are you doing so far south?” Brujon raised his voice.

“Fleeing, trying to find a place to build a new life,” Kael shot back. He had a high temper. “The armies ignored us, but then...” He swallowed hard. “We ran into these...bandits, deserters...I don’t know what they are. They captured me and ten other people, women and men. They brought us to their shelter, where we saw that they had kept more prisoners as well. At least forty all together”

“You know what they were after?” Porthos asked.

Kael shrugged. “I...we were brought into a mine. They told us to work there, in exchange for our hard work, they would make sure we don’t starve. Called us their...what’s the term?” He made a short pause and drew in a deep breath. “You know their right.”

“Like, their spoils of war?” Brujon threw in helpfully.

Kael scowled. “Yes, that’s it. We just had to keep their camp intact, while they spent the whole day doing nothing.” He grimaced as he had to stand on his sore and cut-open feet now. Porthos gestured their field medic, Fréric, over to have a look at it.

“And you managed to escape, right? And now you’re looking for help, so your remaining group can be rescued. Tell me, if I am wrong.” Porthos tried to sound as kind as possible, but he was sure that his impatience could be heard.

“I...To be honest, I was going to ask some mercenaries. I never expected to run into a French general and his regiment.”

“How many bandits or whatever are in this camp?” Porthos interrogated.

“Sir!” Lavrel’s eyes were wide open with disbelief. “The Spanish are our enemy. We have to attack them, not take care of someone else’s business!” He nervously glanced at Kael. “This doesn’t concern us.”

Porthos mostly ignored him, but his lieutenant’s words triggered an unknown panic. He swiftly turned around to face the man again. “You say they have about forty men, keeping their little shelter intact, right?”

Kael nodded, his eyes shining with something that looked like fear now. Porthos seemed to look rough and intimidating these days.

“Any chance some of them were soldiers?” He just had to know. The lack of military presence in this area was unusual. And the fifteen men he had left here all these weeks ago, they probably wouldn’t stand a chance against all of those bandits.

Kael tilted his head, thinking. “Some of them wore something that looked like the remains of a uniform, yes. French they were. Two of them claimed to have served among the musketeers once.”

The unsettling feeling returned to Porthos’ guts, and he could hear the concerned murmuring in the ranks behind him. There had been two former musketeers among the men Porthos had left in charge of their camp, so this for sure was no coincidence. Bandits had taken control over the area in his absence, and they were using innocent and vulnerable people, as well as highly trained soldiers, to manifest their position.

Anger boiled in the General, and he exchanged a quick look with Brujon, before he raised his voice.

“Get off your horses, men, and get some rest. I’ll inform you about our next steps within the next hour.”

It took several seconds for his words to reach his men, but finally, they did as they were told, and gave Porthos some privacy together with Kael, Brujon and Lavrel.

“They have our men. We need to act. And we need to find a way to get all of their prisoners out unscathed.”

“You’re thinking of a diversion, again, right Porthos?” Brujon observed and the General confirmed with a nod, while he started to form a plan in his head.

“And with what the hell would you distract them? They’re thieves, General. They don’t care about anything.” Lavrel was not getting the point.

“I used to be a thief too, Lavrel,” Porthos retorted coldly. “And I tend to think that I care about a lot.”

“This here is different,” Brujon helpfully intervened and raised a placating hand. “They are captivating refugees. They’re exploiting them. There is just no morality left.”

“And they have our comrades!” Lavrel threw in again. “We cannot walk past this.”

Porthos glared at him. “I’m not planning to, in case that was hard to understand.”

Lavrel just shrugged defensively and sighed. “So, a diversion? And what do you think could serve as such?”

Porthos bit his lips. “It has to be tempting enough to lure them out of their hiding, so we can break their defence.”

Brujon rubbed his tired eyes and leaned his back against a tree. “Can’t we just...I don’t know, attack them? That’s also a way to break their defence.”

Porthos chuckled weakly. “You sound like d’Artagnan.” He snorted. “That’s way too risky.”

“Why?” Brujon insisted. “We are more experienced in combat than they are!”

Now it was Lavrel who just rolled his eyes and clasped his hands together. “Really? That’s why they have fifteen of our men in their captivity now?”

Brujon froze and blinked slowly. “Good point.”

“We need bait,” Porthos said again, shifting from one foot to the other, a little nervous. “One they are going to take.”

“I doubt we can draw them out of their cover with the sight of gold or any other riches,” Lavrel mumbled. “I’m pretty sure they hoard enough in their cave.”

“They don’t want gold,” Kael, who had stayed quiet until now, added. “They only want their little shelter to work fluently, with them not doing any of the work. They just want to be left alone.”

Porthos grinned. “Peace during their crimes, that is what they want, yeah?”

Brujon had a frown on his face, and he slowly seemed to grasp what Porthos was up to.

The General continued grimly. “Well, it would be a shame if a French General would come and disturb their precious system.”

A moment of silence. Kael just stared at them, Porthos wasn’t sure whether he had understood what they had just talked about. Lavrel seemed to rewind the idea in his head, and he weighed his options. Brujon looked absolutely appalled.

“With all my respect, Porthos, but you can’t be serious.”

“Oh, I am,” Porthos assured him and straightened up. “I will be the threat they need to eliminate.”

“This is nuts!” Brujon lost all sense of politeness, and his honesty was something Porthos valued very highly.

“If this goes sideways, the Minister will have my head,” Lavrel interjected in a weak attempt of protest.

“The minister,” Porthos growled as he holstered his pistol, “will understand.”

“Why do you insist on risking your life this way?” Brujon asked very loudly. Porthos whirled around, glaring at his fellow friend.

“They have fifteen of our men. They keep prisoners. I’ll do whatever is necessary to get them back, as long as you are ready to do what I need you to do. You’ll attack as soon as I distract them.” Porthos made a short pause. “And afterwards, I would welcome a rescue, if you don’t mind.”

Brujon still wasn’t convinced. “Why do you have to offer yourself? Why can’t we be the bait to lure them out?”

Porthos had a sympathetic look on his face and relaxed a little bit. “You’re no General, Brujon. A few French soldiers are not enough to be a threat to them.” He did not mean to sound arrogant. But it was his rank that scared the bandits, not his strength or his name.

Brujon scowled. “We are capable warriors. They should fear us.”

“I know that!” Porthos retorted angrily. “Enough. We have our plan, and I need to know everyone is in.”

Lavrel nodded hesitantly, and Brujon just folded his arms in front of his chest, thinking.

“Don’t let me make it an order, Brujon,” Porthos begged with a firm voice. He hated to use his authority with his friends, but sometimes, they gave him no choice.

Brujon finally raised his hands in defeat. “You are either very courageous, or completely insane, my friend. I mean, Sir.” He grinned. “But I’ll do whatever you want me to do. I trust you.”

-MMMM-

Their plan was quite simple, but still very risky. All depended on whether the bandits would fall for the bait or not.

Kael, a courageous man, had offered to return to the camp. He had shown the location to a few, chosen soldiers. Kael would explain to the bandits exactly what happened. He would just tell the truth. That he had run from the three riders, and that they had been taken out by a French General and his whole regiment. Then he would continue and tell them about Porthos’ current location. He had chosen an abandoned cabin located in the woods near their military camp.

So now he was waiting here, all of his men were in position near the bandit camp, so they could free the prisoners and later come to rescue Porthos.

Brujon’s words still echoed in his head. His friend questioning why Porthos had to do this, and why he didn’t just pass his uniform on to another soldier who would then risk his life.

When he had been appointed General, he had been honoured. But he had also taken over a leadership, and with the leadership came the responsibility. It was unknown terrain for him at first. He had been told by fellow soldiers that a General is a commander, one who makes the decisions for other people and tells them what to do.

Porthos, after having spent years in the musketeer regiment next to Aramis, d’Artagnan, Athos and Tréville, knew that he had to be a leader. Someone to guide his men, not to order them to do something that might result in certain death. That’s why he decided to take on those unknown bandits himself. War demanded enough victims, enough sacrifices. But there would always be some individuals who would try to use the chaos to their advantage, casting all sense of morality aside.

He patiently leaned against the outer wall of the cabin, acting as if he was very interested in the bottle of wine he held in his hands, when he heard horses approaching. Like, a lot of them.

And then, within moments, they revealed themselves. About twenty riders poured onto the clearing, and Porthos tried to act all surprised and started to search for his pistol, but the leader of the group quickly levelled a gun on him.

“Don’t try.”

Porthos just stared unaffectedly. “You have any idea what you are doing here?” he asked coldly, and kept a firm grip on the bottle in his hands.

The man giggled, and it sounded ridiculously childish. “I take it that you are the mysterious General du Vallon, right?”

“And if I were?” He kept the conversation going, trying to buy as much time as he possibly could. The longer he kept talking, the higher the chances that his men were coming to rescue him. Because alone against twenty men, he stood no chance.

“You left some men in charge of a crappy camp, not far from here,” the leader continued. “They send their regards.”

Porthos acted all surprised. “How do you know that? Where are they?” _Goddamnit, Lavrel, hurry._

“That’s no longer of your concern,” the man said. “You have the choice now, General. You can either come with us, denounce your rank and title, or you’ll die here. It’s up to you.”

Porthos merely took a sip from the wine. “Both doesn’t sound particularly appealing to me. I’m inclined to make you another offer.” He straightened up, towering over the much smaller man. “You let my men go. And I might consider to grant you your life.” He chose his words like Athos would do it. His friend always had quite an effect on strangers.

“Oh, our lives?” the man asked. “I don’t wanna destroy your illusion, General,” he said and Porthos could hear a lot of disgust in his voice. “But if I count correctly, you don’t stand a chance.”

“You seriously think I travel alone?” Porthos asked with a raised eyebrow.

The leader chuckled dryly. “Then tell me, General, where are your men? And why do they leave you out here, unprotected?”

“I can look out for myself, thanks for the concern,” he replied sarcastically.

“Just shoot him, then we’ll have one less problem,” another one of the bandits yelled, but the leader seemed hesitant.

“I like you, General,” he said and circled Porthos slowly, his sword raised high to keep the musketeer at distance.

“I’m flattered,” Porthos countered dryly.

“What do you say? I give you the chance to fight me honourably, so you can die still obtaining some of that value.”

“Your men are going to shoot me afterwards anyway,” Porthos observed.

“Yeah, but here’s the thing,” the man said and came to a halt in front of Porthos. “You’re not gonna win.”

Porthos grinned darkly and he caught a brief movement behind the trees in the distance. “You see, I don’t think I can win this fight alone,” he informed his opponent.  
Then, in a sudden outburst of rage, he used the bottle of wine and smashed it over the leader’s head. “Good thing I am not alone.”

The leader stumbled backwards and started lashing out with his sword. Porthos backed away and stepped aside to avoid the next attack. He then landed a punch to the man’s face, but he did not manage to get a hold of him. His opponent just whirled around and his blade caught Porthos in the abdomen, but his thick armour managed to prevent the blade from cutting in too deep.

Due to an instinct and with a lot of luck, he raised both arms and caught the sword with his demolished bracers, before he kicked out and forced the man to his knees. He, on the other hand, was a lot quicker than Porthos had anticipated. His fist collided hard with Porthos’ face and he was forced backwards. When the man started charging towards him, he dodged just in time and tackled the attacker to the ground, before he rendered him unconscious with a single hit.

He did not have time to catch his breath. Another one of the bandits approached him and Porthos avoided getting beheaded with a sword just in time. He caught his new opponent’s sword-arm and wrenched it so hard the man dropped the weapon with an agonized scream.

Then, Porthos surprisingly got head-butted and he staggered backwards again, where he was overwhelmed. He was pressed with his back against the cabin, and he felt two hands at his throat, fingers digging their nails into his flesh. He wasn’t able to breathe, and his weak efforts to fight the man off were unsuccessful.

For a brief moment, he felt betrayed. He had expected his soldiers to have rescued him by now. He had bought them enough time. On the other hand, he did not know what they had encountered in the camp there.

All he could do was fight for his own survival. His men would come for him. They would. He trusted them with his life.

The edges of his vision were greying, but he continued to struggle, never ready to give in.

And then, the sound of a gunshot tore through his ears and suddenly, the claws around his neck were gone, and the body of the attacker slumped to the ground.

Porthos fell on his knees, his hand at his throat, trying to inhale as much air as possible before he slowly lifted his gaze.

Behind the bandits, lowering a still smoking firearm, Porthos saw none other than Aramis himself. He had no idea what his brother was doing here, but judging from the clothing, it was a more or less official visit. But he did not care. Aramis, after all, had his back. His friend now made his way over to Porthos’ side and offered him a hand.

“Your timing, as usual, is incomparable!” Porthos panted and with a grim look on his face, he kicked the body of his attacker.

Brujon appeared, on horseback, but jumped off the animal as soon as he had reached Porthos.

“You did not doubt we would come for you, did you?”

Porthos denied with a waving hand. “Nah. Never.”

More and more soldiers of Porthos’ regiment poured onto the clearing, and they picked up the fight with the bandits immediately.

Aramis threw him a rapier. “Clearly, we were meant to do this together!” his friend muttered over the sudden noise and held one of the bandits by the armpits while Porthos punched him unconscious.

Porthos laughed. “Ah, Aramis. Such a romantic.”

His friend’s quick-witted response got lost in the riot. The bandits were truly overwhelmed by the sheer number of Porthos’ men, and it did not take too long for them to determine a victory.

“Are you okay, mon ami?” Aramis asked him, a concerned frown on his face. Porthos just raised a hand.

“I’m fine. I’m fine.”

The situation calmed itself very soon, and once Porthos was able to hear his own voice again, he immediately walked up to Brujon.

“Did it...did it work?” His throat was still sore.

Brujon did not react for a second, and Porthos feared the worst. But then, a smile spread over his soldier’s lips. “We were greeted with forty bandits, but we were able to overrun them. We freed all thirty-eight prisoners.” He held something back, and Porthos could guess what it was.

“Losses?”

Brujon bit his lip. “Lisart and Jean. Lavrel and Fréric are wounded.”

Porthos closed his eyes and then, he cursed loudly, throwing his weapon on the ground.

“But all in all,” Brujon assessed casually and holstered his pistol. “We won. Another victory for us. Your plan did work.”

“A victory? We lost two men,” Porthos whispered, his face not giving away anything. He then felt the firm pressure of Brujon’s hand on his shoulder.

“And we saved fifteen.”

“Does it make you feel any better?” Porthos asked a little too sharply. “I...I should’ve come up with a better plan, I should’ve...”

“A better plan?” Aramis interrupted sternly, his eyes wandering between Brujon and Porthos. “There is no better plan in times like these. If you would’ve waited any longer, who knows how many men were left to save.”

“He’s right, Sir.” Lieutnant Lavrel appeared out of nowhere, his hand pressed on his bleeding arm, but he had a proud smile on his face. “We got our men back, and we freed the innocent other victims. We will never forget the names of the two men who courageously gave their lives for their safety.”

“They were brave,” Brujon added. “And they were proud to serve under a man like you.” He gently elbowed Porthos. “Give us this one, small victory. Let the men celebrate it. Who knows what else this war has in store for us.”

Porthos sighed, but nodded eventually. “It’s been long.”

“Well, let me tell you I come with good news,” Aramis informed him, the corners of his mouth twitching as they hinted a smile. “You all will be able to come home soon for a while. New orders from Paris.”

Porthos stared at his friend for a second, and then exchanged a delighted look with Brujon and Lavrel, who both took a deep, relieved breath.

“Oh, wait, I’ve got something for you,” Aramis said to Porthos and walked up to his horse and started rummaging in the saddle-bags, until he pulled out a neatly folded letter. No seal, so it was personal.

“I had to swear on my honour to give you that,” the Minister grumbled, but with a sly grin on his face. “And you know how much my honour means to me.”

Porthos just snorted approvingly and grabbed the letter. As he opened it, he watched the night sky turn brighter, and the sun was beginning to rise. The dawn of yet another victory, even though slightly diminished due to the price his men had to pay. He used the faint light and started to read what his love had to say.

_My dear Porthos,_  
I hope you are well, and I hope you don’t worry about us too often. Marie and I spend a lot of time at the garrison recently, and it seems like our little one is quite attached to the Captain. No worries though, he won’t be any competition. The little shop we set up is running well, and Constance is helping out whenever she has a minute to spare. Aramis took Marie on a short tour through the palace, and she even met the Queen Regent. Marie was astonished by her majesty, and she did not quit talking about it for days.  
I miss you. Marie misses you. She keeps asking me when you’ll come back, and I try to explain it to her, but she is too young to understand. I keep telling her the stories of you and Athos, Aramis and d’Artagnan. At least those I know, but when we come together in the evening, and the Captain has a little too much wine, I keep learning more.   
My thoughts and my heart are with you every day. I yearn the day we will see each other again.   
Take care. We love you.

Porthos smiled and blinked to prevent the tears falling down his face. He ignored his longing for them, he ignored the pain it caused him. Because he would be with them soon.

And then, with a smile on his face, he patiently carved the twohundredandfifteenth cross in his armour.

-MMMM-

**Le bouclier rouillé, Paris, 1656**

Brujon nodded vigorously. “You know, other generals send the men to die for them. Porthos on the other side would’ve taken a bullet for every single one of us.”

“Oh, he did take a bullet for you in ’43, if I recall correctly,” Rissé threw in and Brujon just raised his glass.

“He did not hesitate for a second.”

The owner of the tavern passed their table, and by the look of his face, he had heard everything they had just said. He came to collect the empty glasses, but he just shook his head.

“Musketeers,” he mumbled and snatched the empty mug out of Gaulier’s hands. “Loyal until the end.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The situation referred to here is the siege of Dorsten during the Thirty-Year-War, which took place from July to September 1641. The siege ended with a victory of the Holy Roman Empire of German nations. The city itself is said to be a ruin after the two-months siege. Of course, I don’t know what really happened to the survivors afterwards.  
> Last ‘story-chapter’ coming soon, with all of our favourite musketeers involved. I tried to build something in for everyone for the last of those little tales.  
> Thanks for reading.


	11. Last Man Standing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The four musketeers are guarding the King during a visit of a Baron's castle, when an unknown foe uses it to his advantage. They had never expected the day to turn out like this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Some blood and violence ahead.

__

_In a world without gold, we might have been heroes. – AC Black Flag_

**Château de Coucy, 1631**

“Marvellous!” The King clapped his hands cheerfully, and turned towards Tréville with a broad smile on his lips. The Captain hurried to smile back. “Wouldn’t you agree, Tréville?”

Tréville forced a confirming nod, but the King couldn’t tell that the Captain actually did not care. 

“It’s astonishing,” Tréville declared dramatically. It really wasn’t, Athos determined. The object referred to was a rifle, whose handle was golden and adorned with multiple gemstones. It looked truly ridiculous.

“I’d like to test it!” the King exclaimed and gazed at his host. The Baron de la Riève, a tall, lean man, with a face of, how Aramis had so charmingly put it, a snake ready to kill its prey. But judging from the way the man behaved himself and the way he spoke, Athos doubted he was a threat. He had invited the King to the castle, to offer him some gifts and negotiate some conditions anew. The Queen had stayed in Paris, and Athos was glad. He was thankful for every moment Aramis and the Queen weren’t in one room. As harsh as it may sound, it was too dangerous.

Athos, Aramis, Porthos and d’Artagnan were lined up behind the King, while Tréville had taken the place at his majesty’s side. 

“As you wish, Sire,” the Baron now sneered and gestured his majesty to follow him to the gardens. “You’ll be the first to test this weapon’s power.”

“Murder me,” Porthos mumbled grumpily, which elicited an amused smile out of d’Artagnan.

“Manners, Porthos,” Aramis admonished, his lips barely moving. A musketeer had to learn how to communicate without moving when being stuck in those endless parades. 

“If I’ve to endure this boredom any longer, I don’t know...” 

“Porthos!” Athos hissed from the side and didn’t bestow as much as a glance to his friend. Porthos still mumbled something offensive, but then Tréville turned around briefly and threw him a murderous glare, which shut him up pretty quickly. 

Aramis and d’Artagnan both suppressed a laugh, while Athos just rolled his eyes and focused his attention back on the King.

His majesty followed the Baron through the great castle’s hall. Even Athos had to admit, the building was charming. It was impressive in its simplicity, and a welcome change to the pompous and golden decoration of the Louvre. Giant banners were the only decorations in this room, and the Baron’s family emblem forced itself upon the visitors. 

It was just another routine mission. The King had received the invitation from the Baron de la Riève, and Tréville had received the task to organize everything to secure the King’s safety. His four best men had been ordered immediately to accompany him, and the Captain had entrusted his soldiers with the fact that he did not have a good feeling about this trip. 

But the King’s word was the law, so now here they were, watching his majesty as he went to try out a useless weapon. At least useless in Athos’ opinion. 

They now left the room through a giant doorway, and the castle’s gardens were revealed. It was a small garden, nothing compared to what the Louvre had to offer, but the King, as well as Aramis and Porthos, were focused on something else entirely.

“What a view,” Aramis whispered, his brown eyes soaking in the picturesque landscape. Then he froze, his eyes not moving anymore, and Athos knew he had heard something. 

Athos also felt d’Artagnan’s elbow in his side, and he followed the younger one’s gaze and knew immediately what had drawn Aramis’ and d’Artagnan’s attention. Something was moving behind the trees, very slowly and barely noticeable, at least for untrained eyes. 

He looked at Aramis’ and saw that the marksman’s eyes were locked on something up on the lower roof, and when Athos narrowed his eyes, he was sure he saw the flashing of a light there briefly. Like sun reflecting on metal. 

Before he had the chance to do something, Porthos was there, who had followed the whole situation attentively. The big musketeer made a step forward and grabbed the Captain’s arm. 

Tréville turned around, worry evident on his face. His soldiers knew how to behave, so the Captain immediately assumed there was something off.

“The trigger is cumbersome, but there is barely any recoil,” the Baron was explaining right now and handed the weapon over to his majesty. With glowing eyes, the King took it, and started to aim at one of the training dummies the Baron kept in his garden. 

Porthos granted Tréville a look, and their Captain knew at once what was going on. He grasped his weapon and quickly surveyed the area. “Okay, on my signal, you know what to do.”

“Got it,” d’Artagnan confirmed and subconsciously reached for his pistol. 

“What’s going on here?” the King demanded to know and he whirled around angrily. 

“Ambush,” Porthos stated bluntly and started to shield the shorter man with his body. 

“What? I want to...” the King did not believe what he heard. 

“Your majesty,” Tréville explained with a low voice.”We need to...”

But the Captain did not get to explain what he needed to do or not. The Bang that echoed through the gardens drowned out every other noise. Due to their musketeer reflexes, the four guards immediately knew what to do. Porthos and Athos threw themselves in front of his majesty and yanked the King backwards, and d’Artagnan went for the Baron. Aramis fired his pistol and hit the man who was positioned on the roof. However, four more shots followed, and d’Artagnan, despite his efforts, could do nothing but watch as one of the bullets ripped through the Baron’s chest and he crumbled to the ground. 

“Inside!” Tréville yelled, and the King wasn’t even visible behind all the armour and steel that shielded him now. Athos, Porthos and Tréville covered the King and escorted him back inside, while d’Artagnan and Aramis returned the fire and walked backwards. Once they were inside too, they slammed the doors shut. D’Artagnan quickly took a look around, Athos and Tréville were still keeping a firm grip on the King. 

“Where to now?” d’Artagnan asked, throwing a questioning look at his captain. 

“I kinda doubt we can walk out of the front door,” Porthos assessed sceptically and gratefully accepted the dagger Aramis handed him. 

“The tunnels,” Athos said, already looking for the right way. 

“What?” the King interrupted and his eyes were wide open with fear. The others just ignored him, as his safety was their current priority. 

Tréville looked at Athos. “The ones that contain the water drains?”

Athos nodded. “We’re on a damn hill. There’s not a lot of ways we can take.”

“Shit, they’re getting through!” Aramis yelled from the door he was trying to block with Porthos’ help.

In the blink of an eye, Athos made the decision for Tréville and started dragging the King towards the lower levels of the building. He could hear d’Artagnan trying to calm the King, while Louis kept on babbling something about how they were probably safer if they just barricaded themselves into a room here. 

“We don’t know how many there are, Sire,” d’Artagnan was explaining. “If we do that, they’ll block every route we could use to escape.”

Before the King could respond, the men broke through the doors and started shooting wildly again. Everybody was doing their job. Porthos returned to the King’s side and shielded him with his body, Athos kept dragging the man in the right direction. Tréville, d’Artagnan and Aramis kept firing their weapons, but their little company was too slow with their royal package. 

At one point, when they were getting close to the stairs that led downstairs, they had no choice but to use their swords. Athos saw d’Artagnan kicking one of the attackers down the stairs, but he was forced backwards and stumbled after another one lashed out with his sword. Athos quickly got hold of his pistol, and without hesitation, he killed the man who was about to stab d’Artagnan in the back. The Gascon looked up in surprise after getting rid of another man, before he gratefully and slightly mockingly saluted and focused back on the fight. 

Tréville and Aramis had teamed up and successfully defeated at least five of those attackers. 

Athos, who had now entered the room on the lower levels, started yelling at them to rejoin them. He then took a quick second to look at the King. The young man had his arm drawn protectively over his head, his face distorted with fear. 

“Your majesty, are you hurt?” Porthos wanted to know, quickly scanning the man from head to toes. 

Louis shook his head, clearly shocked. “No, I’m fine.” He gazed up at Athos. “The Baron?”

“Shot dead,” Athos reported bluntly, and did not go into detail. All he had seen were the musket balls that had torn through the nobleman’s chest, and he had watched how he had crumbled to the ground immediately. But, to be fair, he had paid little attention to him. All that mattered to him was getting the King out. 

Louis looked honestly scared and devastated. “The poor man.”

While Athos kept yelling for the others to come to them, he heard Porthos’ slightly insensitive answer. “Yeah, we will have Aramis say a latin prayer for him as soon as we get you out of here, your majesty.”

Good thing Athos was too busy right now to scold his friend. Finally, he heard the others running down the stairs. Tréville ran in first and headed straight to the King, asking him the same questions Athos had just posed. 

Then, accompanied by a hail of bullets, d’Artagnan and Aramis stormed through the door and slammed it shut, using some of their enemies’ rapiers to block the entrance. Then, the two of them started to move some of the spare furniture in front of the doors.

“That’s probably not going to hold very long,” Aramis declared after he finished putting the third chair in front of the doorknob. 

“Aramis.” Athos’ voice was calm, with a pinch of concern. He stared at the red liquid that spread over the marksman’s armour, and the hole in his jacket, somewhere around his shoulder. 

Aramis, currently busy trying to reload his pistol, lifted his head to look at his friend. “Yeah?”

“You’re hit,” d’Artagnan assessed, not nearly as composed as Athos. 

Aramis, who looked like his adrenaline was slowly beginning to wear off, followed Athos’ gaze until his eyes landed on the blood covering his shoulder. 

“Ah, well,” he said and grimaced as he tried to move it. “Now, that’s unfortunate.” 

“They’re getting through!” the King took the word, his voice high-pitched in its fear. 

Athos threw Aramis a quick glance to make sure his friend was okay, but Aramis just granted him his usual ‘I’m fine’ movement, the flick of his wrist. Porthos hurried to his friend’s side and offered him a supportive shoulder, and Athos and Tréville continued to guide the King backwards. They had to take another stairs down before they would reach the tunnels, and they had to get there quickly, but more importantly, safely. 

They reached the next room, and unknowingly entered one of the main halls, where multiple rooms were connected to. Porthos and d’Artagnan slammed the doors shut and locked it, which gave them all little time to breathe. 

“Check the rooms!” Tréville ordered, while he himself aimed his weapon at the locked doors, ready for everything that might come through. “I don’t want any unnecessary surprises.”

Porthos, Aramis and d’Artagnan split up, each of them securing a different room. D’Artagnan was the first one to return with a shaking head. 

“Empty.”

Athos was able to make out some fighting noises out of one of the other rooms. He almost missed it, because the noises the group of men on the other side of the barricaded doors made were enormous, but eventually, Aramis came staggering out of his room. 

“Now...clear,” he panted and wiped the sweat off his brow. He took his place at d’Artagnan’s side, and Athos took a step forward, furrowing his brow as he now made out the clang of steel in the last room. Porthos was in trouble. Athos unsheathed his sword and approached the room.

Suddenly, his world was drowned by the explosion that ripped through the air, and flames suddenly burst out of the room Porthos had chosen to survey, accompanied by a loud and numbing bang. 

Athos’ world froze, and he stared at the remains of the wooden door in shock. He heard Aramis desperately shouting Porthos’ name, he witnessed Tréville slinging his arms around d’Artagnan as the young man made an attempt to rush forward. 

“We need to bring the King into safety!” Tréville yelled in order to get their attention back, and despite the unbelievable they had just witnessed, they moved backwards in unison, like a subconscious duty. 

Athos and Tréville shielding the King, d’Artagnan and Aramis furiously firing their pistols at the next wave of attackers that came through the barricaded door now. They were coming from multiple directions, and there was no trace of Porthos. Every fibre of his being screamed at Athos to go into the demolished room and search for any sign of his lost friend, but they had to do their duty first. 

_Their duty._ Athos kept repeating it in his head like a mantra, over and over again so his limbs would cooperate and do what his head kept telling him.   
They finally reached the top of the stairs that led into the tunnels, a narrow, spiral staircase. Athos forced the King around the corner and he leaned against the wall to breathe for a moment, just a brief moment. He had lost sight of d’Artagnan and Aramis for a second and fear gripped his heart, the one that still could not accept what might have been Porthos’ fate. He almost had tears of relief in his eyes when d’Artagnan and Aramis came into sight.

It seemed like they had successfully outrun the attackers for now, and walked towards them, throwing glances over their shoulders all the time and preparing their weapons for the next attack. 

“Who are these people?” the King asked, but Athos wasn’t inclined to answer. This was no usual ambush. It was a planned assassination – and it had already demanded sacrifices. Athos exchanged a brief look with Tréville, and the Captain nodded. Athos let go of the King and hurried towards his friends. 

“They are still tearing down our barricades,” d’Artagnan reported, trying to catch his breath. “But I think whatever Porthos did...” His voice broke, and he quickly avoided Athos’ gaze. “Well, it distracted them.”

“He paid a high price for that...,” Athos’ voice was low.

“He’s alive,” Aramis growled. He was white as a sheet, his eyes wet with unshed tears. 

“Of course he is,” d’Artagnan added confidently, but his voice was shaking too. “He...he is Porthos.”

“Damn right,” Aramis grunted and walked past Athos to briefly report to Tréville. He was swaying dangerously, and Athos wondered how long he could go on like this. Right now, it seemed to be the pure adrenaline. 

Athos exchanged a look with d’Artagnan, and his young companion’s face was a mirror of his own worry and disbelief. 

“We’ve got to keep moving!” Tréville ordered. Athos nodded tensely, and his captain’s statement was confirmed when suddenly, a few men stormed around the corner with their weapons raised high, yelling angrily. 

“Down!” Athos yelled and grabbed the King’s arm again, Tréville by his side. Aramis and d’Artagnan followed on their heels. When Athos and the King made it down the stairs, the swordsman took a second to look back, only to find Aramis and d’Artagnan engaged in a fight. There wasn’t a lot of space for a battle, and Athos was about to help his brothers, but Tréville held him back. 

Then, an agonized scream tore through the air, and Athos’ heart sank when he spotted Aramis pinned against the wall, his opponent getting closer and closer with a   
knife, while his fingers dug into Aramis’ shoulder wound. 

Now Tréville wasn’t able to hold Athos. The musketeer lunged forward and by chance managed to take one of d’Artagnan’s enemies out. But when he lifted his gaze, he saw more and more attackers pouring through the open doors at the top of the stairs. 

“Where do they all come from?” The King, for once, was asking the right questions, Athos thought. All their efforts, but somehow, the flow of men who wanted to see the King dead did not stop. 

Athos and d’Artagnan tried to run upstairs, but they had no chance. Aramis was still pinned against the wall, his own arms trying to steer the knife away from his flesh, while he grew even paler. His eyes landed on Athos, and for the first time in a long time, Athos felt helpless. 

“Go!” Aramis’ words barely managed to reach his ears. Athos was still fighting, but the attackers forced him backwards, towards d’Artagnan, Tréville and the King. He tried again to fight his way through to his friend further up the stairs, but the only thing that happened was that he felt a stinging sensation in his leg when a parrying dagger buried itself in his thigh. 

He looked up to Aramis again, and he felt like he was in trance. 

“For God’s sake!” Aramis choked out, his eyes were begging them to leave. “Just go!”

Athos could hear d’Artagnan shouting Aramis’ name, but the young Gascon also stood no chance against the number of men that attacked them in this narrow space. 

Suddenly, Tréville’s hand was on his shoulder, and Athos turned around to look at his superior. 

“Get the King into safety!” he ordered and roughly shoved Athos towards Louis, before he grabbed his pistol and managed to shoot the man who had a hold on Aramis. Both men went down, and they lay sprawled on the steps, unmoving. But there was no way to get through to Aramis. 

Athos cursed vividly and did as he was told. He and the King stumbled into the tunnels, and he could feel the water soaking his boots up to his calves. Despite the King’s complaints, he continued to run, feeling the presence of Tréville and d’Artagnan behind him. 

Finally, they reached a tunnel where the water got even deeper, and on the other side of the grid, Athos was able to see the daylight. That was their way out. He came to an abrupt stop, and he turned to Tréville and d’Artagnan. 

“We need to swim and dive underneath it,” he explained matter-of-factly and handed the King to d’Artagnan. “You’re the best swimmer, you’ll take the King,” he added. Louis himself opened his mouth to protest, but Tréville threw the young King a look that tolerated no protest. It was unusual how much authority Tréville had, even when he was in a room with the King. 

“Give me your pistol!” Athos said to the Captain. Tréville did not hesitate for a second and handed him the weapon. Athos fired the shot the second one of the attackers came running around the corner. 

“Go!” he heard Tréville bark at d’Artagnan, and the sound of splashing water behind him assured Athos that d’Artagnan was indeed guiding the King towards the grid. Tréville followed him and Athos only started to move after his superior’s urgent yelling. He turned on the heel and wanted to run towards the others, who were already diving underneath the grid, when he felt a flash of pain ripping through his leg and he crashed to the ground, his face plunged into the dirty waters. His hand reached for his leg, and he could feel the warm, sticky liquid pouring out of the flesh wound.

He gasped for air and turned around to lie on his back. The voices of the nearing attackers came closer and closer.

“Athos!” he heard d’Artagnan’s shouts, but he could not see his friend. He merely started reloading the pistol, while he was lying on his back, his leg not cooperating anymore. 

“Run!” he yelled. “I’ll hold them off.”

“No way!” D’Artagnan replied, swallowing a mouthful of water. 

“Right now! Protect the King and do your damn duty!” Athos shouted while he shot down another attacker. It was harsh, but he needed d’Artagnan to do as he was told. And then, the enemies came running towards him.

And d’Artagnan had no choice but to leave.

-MMMM-

D’Artagnan had no idea how this day had just taken such a dramatic turn, but he also wasn’t given the time to think about it. He had brought the King to the other side, but when Athos hadn’t followed, he had returned to look after his brother, only to find him injured and about to be overrun on the wet and dirty floor of the tunnels. 

D’Artagnan would be angry at Athos for making him leave him behind, but he simply did not have the time. Once he had rejoined Tréville and the King and they had swum towards the edge of the big pond, he had to pick up a fight again. Two or three men followed them through the water, and with a heavy heart, d’Artagnan came to realize what this possibly meant for Athos. 

A few other armed men came running down the hill, as they had taken the main route from the castle down here, and d’Artagnan, whose pistol was no use after their dunk in the water, started a swordfight as soon as the men came into his range. 

It was an endless dance. Parry, strike, dodge. D’Artagnan did have so much training, but only half of his heart was in the fight for the King’s survival right now. The other half was still in the castle, with his friends and brothers. His inattentiveness came with a high price. As he whirled around to face the next man, he saw the gun aimed at him. 

He stumbled backwards, in a ridiculous attempt to avoid the bullet if it came. For a second, he made eye-contact with his future executioner, brown eyes meeting green, one man in defeat, the other in scornful amusement.

And suddenly, a giant figure jumped at the attacker who had his gun levelled at d’Artagnan, and he knocked him out with his bare hands. The man was soaked in water and blood, but he was alive. 

_Porthos._

“We thought,” d’Artagnan yelled, pushing the King behind his back. “We thought you were dead.” 

Porthos laughed. And right now, it was the sweetest sound for d’Artagnan’s ears. “Takes a little more than an explosion to get rid of me, whelp,” he said and saved his captain from an assailing enemy. Porthos then laid a firm hand on d’Artagnan’s shoulder. 

“Where is Athos?” he looked around. “And Aramis?”

D’Artagnan did not respond, and he could not look in Porthos’ eyes. What was he going to say? He did not know? Or that Aramis stayed behind with a gunshot-wound, and Athos took it on himself to prevent the enemies from following them through the tunnels? None of it was what Porthos wanted to hear, and none of it was what d’Artagnan wanted to say. Because if he said it, it meant he believed it.

But Porthos did not get the time to think about it, neither did d’Artagnan. They were attacked with swords again, and all remaining three of them, Porthos, d’Artagnan and Tréville, were forced to participate in the fight, leaving the King to the side. Which proved to be their fatal mistake. 

“I’ll suggest you drop your swords now!” D’Artagnan whirled around and looked into the faces of the two remaining attackers. They were outnumbered, but the two men both had their pistols aimed at none other than the King himself. Louis had his eyes wide open, his hands raised in defeat. He was shaking hard, and if d’Artagnan did not have such a rough past hour, he might’ve had pity.

And so there they stood. Swords against pistols, a battle they could not win. Not with the two of them. Why didn’t they shoot? It had been their goal to get rid of the King in the first place, so why didn’t they just do it, no matter the consequences?

“’Cause they’re afraid what we’re gonna do to them,” Porthos whispered into d’Artagnan’s ear, answering the question he hadn’t asked aloud. 

“Again,” one of the attackers said, not lowering his pistol an inch. “Drop your damn weapons or I’ll shoot his majesty on the spot.”

“Do what he says,” Tréville ordered with a quick side-glance on the King and he dropped his weapon into the grass. 

Suddenly, they heard a loud shot. 

D’Artagnan jerked in shock and his eyes widened, fearing the worst for the King, but then he saw how one of the attackers fell to the ground, a gaping hole in his back. Before the other one had the chance to do anything, d’Artagnan used the opportunity and threw his dagger with as much force as he could muster. It buried itself into the last man’s chest and he too crumbled to the ground. 

Slowly, d’Artagnan lifted his eyes, searching for the source of the gunshot, trying to determine who the King was staring at with so much admiration.

And then there, behind the two men on the grass, was the Baron de la Riève, on his knees, lowering a still smoking, golden rifle. His entire upper body was stained with red.

“Well,” the nobleman whispered and stared admiringly at the weapon in his hands. “The recoil is harder than I anticipated.”

-MMMM-

The first thing Athos was able to feel was the cold water he was lying in face-down. His head was pounding, and his leg throbbing. But he was alive. He did not know how, but he was alive. The last thing he remembered was the awkward brawling with the man whose body was lying in the pit behind him now. And then, there was nothing. Sluggishly, he opened his eyes. His vision was blurry, but he was sure that there was someone gently tapping his face. 

“For God’s sake, Athos, finally.” That was d’Artagnan’s voice. Wasn’t he supposed to be with the King?

Athos weakly slapped d’Artagnan’s hand away and crawled backwards, until his back rested against the walls of the tunnels. 

“The...,” He cleared his throat as his voice failed to cooperate. 

“King?” d’Artagnan finished for him with an annoyed expression on his face. “Yeah, no, he is alive. We did it.”

“The others?” He had to admit, his thoughts were with his brothers, not primarily with the King. 

D’Artagnan seemed to hesitate for a second. Athos lifted his head to look at his friend. The Gascon leaned against the opposite wall, he was completely drenched, and he looked beyond tired, but he was alive and well. That’s all that counted. 

“Porthos saved my life outside. Turned out the explosion threw him right out of the window and with a good amount of luck, he landed in the water. He’s mostly fine, though he has some bad bruises.”

Athos closed his eyes in relief. Of course Porthos made it. He had known it, deep inside. 

“And Aramis?” he asked, a little scared of the answer he was going to receive. 

“Tréville found him where we were forced to leave him,” d’Artagnan said, clearly ashamed. “He’s unconscious, but he will be fine.”

Athos tried to catch the younger one’s gaze. 

“We had no choice,” he stated, but his own voice sounded very distant. 

“I know.” D’Artagnan stayed silent for a moment again. “Just another day in the regiment, right?” He laughed sourly. “An almost-successful assassination, three close calls, and too many bruised. I should probably get used to this.”

“Well,” Athos breathed and the corners of his mouth hinted a grin. “Musketeers don’t die easily.” 

-MMMM-

Two hours later, Athos was limping over the green grass towards the bench Tréville was seated together with the King, who was clutching the golden musket in his dirty, bloodstained hands. 

“And you are sure you are fine, Sire?” Athos head Tréville ask just when he joined them. The King nodded. 

“I’m fine. Physically, at least.” He straightened up. “ But I need to know their motives. Why did they do what they did? And why here, and not when we are on our way back to Paris?”

Tréville sighed and stood up. “Some people don’t need a motive. Some act out of pure hate. All that matters is that they did not succeed.”

The King bit his lip, thinking. “When we return to Paris, I want to have a special ceremony held for the Baron,” he declared out of nowhere.

“What for?” Athos asked bluntly and he could feel the Captain’s warning stare in his back. He shifted all of his weight on his uninjured leg, which caused his crooked posture.

“To honour his bravery, of course,” the King explained slightly upset about Athos’ lack of understanding. “I want my entire musketeer regiment to be there as well.”   
He turned around to Tréville. 

“How long until we can return to Paris?”

The Captain tensed visibly. “Well, we have three men down, plus the Baron. Knowing my musketeers, they’ll probably insist on leaving as soon as possible, so maybe tomorrow. Depends on what will happen to de la Riève.”

“I want to stay long enough until someone can tell me the Baron will make it,” the King said in a voice that tolerated no protest. 

“Sire?” Tréville asked doubtfully.

“This man saved my life, Tréville,” Louis declared in an urgent voice and leaned over to the Captain. “I want him to receive the best treatment we can offer.” 

And then, Athos saw a look on the Captain’s face he had never seen before. Disgust and disappointment. In front of the King.

Probably thanks to the recognition the King failed to give his own men. Athos watched as Tréville made a step forward and opened his mouth, but then Athos quickly grabbed the captain’s arm, only to end up being supported by the man when his leg did not seem to carry his weight anymore. 

“Sir, I’m going to need your help over here,” Athos said, his cool eyes locked on the captain. Tréville bit down whatever he was about to say to the King and nodded, before he accompanied Athos to the other three musketeers, who were awaiting them in one of the smaller rooms of the west wing. They were greeted with the scent of blood and sweat. 

When he entered the room, Athos spotted his friends immediately. Porthos was lying on one of the two beds, his torso tightly bandaged but judging by the amount of force d’Artagnan seemed to have to use to hold him down, the big musketeer had regained a lot of his strength. Aramis was sitting on the ground, leaning against the bed, his eyes closed due to the exhaustion. He was pale, but alert, though he did not seem to see the need to interfere in the wrestling behind him. 

Athos approached and without a word, he dropped on the edge of the bed, almost falling over when his leg denied him its service. 

D’Artagnan jumped in surprise, as he had been too busy keeping Porthos in check that he hadn’t noticed Athos and Tréville entering the room. 

“How’s the King?” d’Artagnan asked casually and granted Porthos one last, stern look before he stood up. 

Tréville sighed. “A little shaken, but alive, thanks to all of you.” 

“Actually, thanks to the Baron,” Athos added coldly, not able to hide the bitterness in his voice. “His majesty wants to honour him for his bravery. With a ceremony and a ton of gold.”

“No need to be sour, Athos,” Aramis remarked, after having seen Tréville’s and Athos’ expressions. “We don’t need the glory.”

“A little thank you is too much to ask?” d’Artagnan wanted to know and only received a brief nod from Athos.

“Well, no good news for you, Porthos,” Tréville now said, his face a mirror of pity. 

“Excuse me?” Porthos did not seem to be sure what his superior was referring to, nor did he know what was wrong. 

“You all will have to return to your duties very soon.” 

“Meaning?” Aramis chipped in, his eyes wandering from Tréville to Porthos and back. 

Tréville’s mouth formed a crooked grin and he held out a helping hand to Porthos. “Parades, Porthos. Another Parade. And if I catch you complaining about the lack of excitement again, you and Aramis will be put on stable duty for a week.”

“Hey, what do I have to do with this?” Aramis weakly protested from the side. 

Tréville just raised an eyebrow. ”Just because you don’t say it as loudly, don’t think I don’t know what the two of you keep murmuring when you think I don’t hear it.”   
He smiled. 

And with the look of guilt on Aramis’ face, Athos could hear Porthos and d’Artagnan laugh behind him. And in the end, he managed a grin too. Because they were still here, they were together and they had survived. Just like they always did.

-MMMM-

**Le bouclier rouillé, Paris, 1656**

“Damn,” Rissé commented, and he looked truly shocked. “I did not know about that one. Seems like things got really precarious.”

Brujon snorted. 

“Well, I do believe you have been in similar situations, am I right?”

Rissé grimaced. “Yeah. Well, it doesn’t matter now.” He threw a quick look at Verde. “Also a part of being a musketeer. But no worries, most of the days are not that…dangerous.”

Verde just frowned but he did not say anything.

„I think our evening is about to get interesting,“ Gaulier suddenly commented and Brujon noticed his eyes were locked on the tavern’s door. 

Brujon turned on his chair and saw that the woman every man’s attention was drawn to, was Madame d’Artagnan. She entered the sticky tavern gracefully, her long, brown hair pinned up loosely, and she wore a dress of a bright, red color. Next to her was Alexandre, her ten year old son. He gripped his mother’s hand as if his life depended on it, his dark, brown eyes roaming all over the place, taking in every detail of the tavern that was by now mostly filled with drunken men. 

Constance’s eyes searched the area, until they landed on Brujon and his table filled with musketeers. She shot a disapproving look at Gaulier as she noticed his son sitting on his lap, but then she hurried over to them, dragging her tired son with her. 

Out of the corner of his eyes, Brujon noticed Rissé sinking even deeper into his chair the closer the Captain’s wife got. Brujon couldn’t help but chuckle at the sight, but he quickly shut up the moment he felt Constance staring at him. 

“Madame d’Artagnan!” Gaulier greeted and raised his cup at her, “What a pleasure that you decided to join us today.” He made a short pause and grinned broadly at the child clinging on to her hand. 

“And you too, Alexandre. You and your mother are always a welcoming sight for my sore eyes.”

“Spare me your blandishments, Gaulier, and save it for your wife,” Constance countered sharply, but her eyes glistered with amusement and the wrinkles around her eyes made her look even friendlier. 

Gaulier obeyed and finished his cup quickly. 

“What are you doing here, Constance?” Brujon asked her. It was unusual for her to see what her husband’s soldiers were doing so close to midnight. And Alexandre wasn’t awake at this time usually as well. 

She sighed. “D’Artagnan sends me. It’s time, Brujon. You and the others are expected at the garrison.” She scanned the men assembled at the table. “And bring your son home, Gaulier, it’s way past his bedtime. I’m sure your wife is wondering already.”

“As you wish, Madame. Come, Verde,” he said, threw a few coins on the table to pay for his wine and guided his son out of the building. 

Brujon rose from his seat as well, and he apparently wasn’t able to hide his nervousness. Or maybe it was the wine.

Constance chuckled weakly. 

“No worries, even though d’Artagnan tries to play it cool, he is far more excited than any of you.”

Brujon managed a crooked smile. 

“Well, it’s been some years I’ve seen all three of them. And I can’t wait to see them reunite again.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Chateau de Coucy was built in 13th century. The family who owned it in this story is fictional. Unfortunately, the castle was demolished during World War I. 
> 
> This was the last of the little stories. Four chapters, set 20 years post-series, with the already hinted reunion are coming soon. Thanks for reading!


	12. The Veteran, the Scholar and the Father

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> D'Artagnan greets Athos, Porthos and Aramis when they come back to the garrison in 1656. The musketeers are suspicious, because it seems that Captain d'Artagnan knows something the rest doesn't.

__

_We’ve taken different paths, and travelled different roads, but I know we will always end up on the same one when we’re old – “Brother, by Kodaline_

**The Garrison, September 1656**

A group of at least twenty to thirty musketeers was already assembled in the garrison's courtyard when their captain finally decided to join them.

Constance and her son were standing next to Brujon and Gaulier, who was engaged in a very intense discussion with Alexandre about the fastest horses they've ever seen. The young boy clearly inherited his father's sense for the animals, and it became clear very quickly that with the boy's knowledge, Gaulier didn't stand a chance.

But all the discussions went quiet when Captain d'Artagnan stepped out of his office, side by side with his fourteen-year-old daughter Isabelle. He wore the musketeer uniform with a blue cloak, his hat covering his shoulder-long hair. He hadn't shaved in about a week, so he had his usual stubbles, darkening his chin.

Isabelle next to him looked as fierce as her mother did when Brujon had first met her. She even wore one of her mother's dresses, a blue one adorned with rivets and leather. Her brown locks fell freely over her shoulders.

Together, father and daughter made their ways downstairs and greeted Constance and Alexandre. D'Artagnan placed a gentle kiss on his wife's cheek, before his eyes wandered over the assembled musketeers and he greeted them with a nod of his head.

"Thanks for coming, it means a lot," he addressed them.

"Nothing to thank us for," one of the musketeer replied teasingly and d'Artagnan rolled his eyes. Even though he was their Captain, he had a good relationship with most of the men.

Brujon, known in the garrison as d'Artagnan's second-in-command, turned to his superior.

"Don't get me wrong, Captain. I haven't seen them in years, and I'm looking forward to it. But why are you so certain they all arrive here, today, at midnight?"

D'Artagnan raised an eyebrow at the question, but he sighed.

"Because I sent for them," he confessed honestly, before he placed a hand on Brujon's shoulder. "We need their help," he murmured into the musketeer's ear, his voice was so low that only Brujon was able to hear it.

Brujon shot a worried look at his Captain, but d'Artagnan's attention turned back to the garrison's gate.

The clock of Notre-Dame struck twelve, and the sound of the bells rung through the entire city.

Brujon could feel d'Artagnan shifting nervously next to him, and every pair of eyes was locked on the garrison's gate. Brujon could hear Constance talking quietly to Isabelle, something about dirt in her hair. Her daughter's rebellious reply, something among the lines of 'what do you care' was drowned out by a loud nickering and the thundering of hooves coming closer.

The expectant silence hung over the assembled men like a mantle, shielding their minds from everything else but the rider now coming through the garrison's gates.  
It was a large, black warhorse he was riding, the bridle decorated with all sorts of metal that would fit. He brought the giant animal to an abrupt halt a few lengths in front of d'Artagnan and Brujon.

The rider of the horse, a broad man of intimidating height, wore a dark uniform with a silver harness. The dents and scrapes all over the armor spoke of years on the battlefield, each one telling its own story. The travelling cloak around his shoulders had a simple, blue color, but underlined his rank. The man wore a bandana and a black hat, and dark stubbles darkened his chin. Which was quite an unusual sight considering how he tended his beard during his time as a musketeer. A long scar ran from underneath his eye right down to his jaw.

Brujon exhaled slowly. _Porthos._

Though Brujon saw the playful musketeer with a tendency for violence and a passion for card games, he knew that a lot of the younger musketeers behind him saw General du Vallon, a war veteran, a name honored by the French and feared by the Spanish.

Ever since the Queen had appointed Porthos a General, the man had been responsible for many victories, and he had stood by his soldier's side through some defeats. Though he had originally retired from his duty about seven years ago to spend more time with his wife Elodie and his now grown-up daughter Marie, his strategic genius had been required ever since the war with Spain broke out anew two years ago, and he had never stopped serving the King or his country.

In the palace, Porthos was known as the calculating general who never hesitated to speak his doubts out aloud, among the musketeers, he was known as a loyal friend, comrade and warrior.

Brujon glanced at d'Artagnan, and he saw the pure joy that was written all over the Captain's face. The Captain had kept in touch with his friends over the past years, but he hadn't seen them all in person for some time.

Porthos dismounted, his heavy armor slowing him down. The first person he turned to was, of course, the Captain.

"I never thought the day might come where you are the only one who is on time," d'Artagnan greeted his old friend with a sly grin.

Porthos bellowed a laugh. "War doesn't wait for me." For a second, they just stood face to face, inspecting each other with their eyes, until Porthos roared in joy.

"Come 'ere," he shouted and pulled d'Artagnan into a bear hug, his huge arms embracing the younger man. D'Artagnan answered the hug with a firm squeeze, his face showing nothing but pure joy, behaving like every other soldier who got reunited with his closest friend.

After their greeting, Porthos kept a firm hold on d'Artagnan, his hand clasped around the Captain's upper arm.

"Let me look at you," he grumbled and a spark of mischief glistered in his eyes. "You got old."

D'Artagnan raised an eyebrow, his eyes scanning Porthos from head to toe.

"Really?" he teased and Porthos glared at him deadly serious for a second, before he broke out into laughter again.

His eyes then came to rest on the other people gathered in the Garrison's courtyard.

"Constance," he greeted Madame d'Artagnan now, his voice and face much softer and he pulled her into a light hug. "It's good to see you."

Constance granted him a warm smile. "It's been too long." That might be true from Constance's point of view, but from all the Inseperables, it was Porthos who they'd seen last, even though it's been about a year. Though d'Artagnan kept in touch with Aramis and Athos as well, he hadn't seen them in person for a longer time.

Porthos then greeted Isabelle and Alexandre, and when he was done he squeezed Brujon's shoulder.

"You're looking good, Brujon," he commented with a smile on his face. "Better than last time I've seen you."

Brujon chuckled, rolling his eyes. "Last time we met I had a knife sticking out of my shoulder. I suppose it's not a challenge to look better, then."

Porthos laughed and tapped his arm. "True."

And then he took his place next to Captain d'Artagnan, eagerly awaiting the arrival of the two last members of the Inseperables.

-MMMM-

It surprisingly didn't take too long for the next rider to pass the garrison's gates. Maybe twenty minutes after Porthos' impressive entry, they were able to make out the sound of hooves on stone, going a much slower pace than Porthos' horse had.

Over a dozen pairs of eyes were focused on the gates, and Brujon was almost able to hear the Captain and Porthos holding their breaths. The gate was only lightened by two burning torches on each side of the gate, and now finally threw their light on the rider that entered the courtyard, his brown horse calmly trotting towards them.

The rider was clothed in a thick, brown travelling cloak, and he wore a simple white shirt underneath. The hood of his cloak was pulled down and revealed the shoulder-long, dark locks that were pulled together in a low ponytail right below the neck. Though his clothing was simple, the man still looked very neat. The only, opulent piece of clothing was a pendant that rested on his chest, a golden cross, given to him by the Queen herself.

Aramis.

The years had been kind to him, Brujon noticed. His beard, which he tended to almost the same as he did all these years back during his time in the garrison, had a lot of grey streaks, but apart from that and a few wrinkles above his brow, he looked mostly the same. Three scars were visible on his face, one along his forehead, which he already had when Brujon had first met him, one on his cheek when he had protected the Queen two decades ago and another long one along his right temple ending just above his eye. That one he had received a few years after he was appointed minister, and he had been the target of an assassination attempt.

Aramis had served many years as a minister for Queen Anne and the Dauphin Louis XIV., but he had eventually retired to a monastery on the countryside. Even though Aramis had stated many times that it had been his decision, it had been pretty obvious that he had been forced to leave the palace and abandon his position as a minister. D'Artagnan had told Brujon that it was probably the council's doing, but nobody was sure what exactly had happened.

But Aramis never had appeared to be mad, in fact, it had seemed as if he was glad that the responsibility was off his shoulders and he could devote his life to the studies once more.

While Porthos appeared to be the warrior, a general, Aramis had the appearance of a scholar. He spent his time studying ancient writings, and learning more about the cultures of this earth, while serving under God in the meantime.

Judging from his physical appearance, Brujon could tell the former minister still spent a lot of his time on training and tried to stay fit. Under the heavy travelling-cloak, Brujon was sure to make out two pistols attached to his belt.

Once a musketeer, always a musketeer.

Aramis now jumped off his horses' back with an unusual agility for his age and landed safely on his feet, a little stunned as he noticed all the assembled men in the courtyard.

"All these years, but you still need to show off, don't you, d'Artagnan?" he greeted them with an amused smile on his face.

D'Artagnan grimaced.

"It's gotten more difficult to impress you, my friend. I always try," he replied mockingly.

Aramis' smile got even brighter. "Well, you succeeded."

A short moment of silence, then it was d'Artagnan who pulled Aramis into a strong and brotherly embrace. Both men looked absolutely delighted to see each other again.

Once d'Artagnan released Aramis from his arms, the man walked up to Porthos, both men scanning each other with fake skepticism.

"You are late," Porthos growled.

Aramis shrugged. "It appears I am still more punctual than our dearest Comte."

Again a moment of awkward silence, then Porthos roared with laughter again and he almost tackled Aramis to the ground in an attempt to hug him. They only stayed upright because Aramis had been prepared and dug his heel into the mud.

"It's been way too long, my old friend," Aramis said into Porthos' ear, absolutely not caring that there were over a dozen pairs of eyes watching them.

Porthos stepped away again and patted his friend's shoulder.

"So you're digging your nose into books again, yes?" Porthos stated, his eyes glistening with curiosity.

Aramis nodded simply. "Yes. That's all I'm doing up in that monastery."

Porthos snorted. He of course also had kept in touch with Aramis over the past years and knew exactly what he was doing. Though Aramis might be a man of letters now, studying ancient writings and paroles, that wasn't all.

The Samaritan in him still craved for doing more, and all d'Artagnan had told Brujon was that he still helped the people in a more or less conventional way, though d'Artagnan liked to pretend he knew nothing of that. Because not all of what Aramis was doing there was legal, and as Captain of the musketeers, it would be d'Artagnan's job to go after him occasionally.

But, as the Captain had always said, what he didn't know he couldn't fight. So as much as it concerned d'Artagnan, Aramis was just a scholar, residing in a monastery, studying his books in peace.

Aramis also had greeted Constance and Isabelle, and now ruffled Alexandre's hair.

"You grew a lot, Alexandre. There's no doubt you'll be as tall as your father one day," he said and elicited a smile out of the child. Aramis leaned down to Alexandre. "And as adventurous as your father as well, am I right?"

Constance glared at Aramis, slapping the man against the shoulder.

"Don't encourage him!" Alexandre couldn't hide a giggle and Brujon also felt a movement running through the lines of men in his back as they tried to keep their straight face.

Aramis just raised his hands in defense before he grabbed his horse's reins, turning his head to look for the stables and patting his horse's neck to calm it.  
His gaze also fell on Brujon, and a grin appeared on his face as his eyes noticed the weapon the musketeer wore attached to a strap around his waist.

"It's good to see you still take care of the old beast," he commented and Brujon nodded and grabbed the arquebuse from his belt. It had been a gift from Aramis when he had left the garrison all these years ago, and for Brujon it had been one of the greatest gifts he had ever received. And after using the weapon in combat multiple times, he had learned to understand Aramis' love for the firearms. This weapon was truly unique.

"I value and honor her every day," Brujon retorted dramatically and Aramis smiled.

"She's in good hands."

His eyes wandered over the crowd and he turned back to d'Artagnan and Porthos.

"So, Athos is simply delayed or did he get lost on his way to Paris? Orientation has never been his strong suit," Aramis said with a smirk.

"No, but my hearing is still excellent," a voice stated from the entrance and everyone's attention was drawn to the rider coming through the garrison's gates now. They   
had been so distracted with the conversation with Aramis that nobody had noticed the man with the grey cloak, who had entered on top of an inconspicuous black horse.

Athos truly hadn't lost his powerful aura, Brujon determined. Every musketeer, excluding Porthos, Aramis and d'Artagnan of course, shut up immediately and gaped at d'Artagnan's predecessor. There were maybe three or four musketeers in the regiment, including Brujon, who had already served when Athos had been Captain of the musketeers under Louis the Thirteenth.

Athos' hair was a mix of dark brown and grey, his beard about as long as Aramis', though he did not tend to it as lovingly as his friend did. He wore a thin, leathern doublet underneath his coat, as well as simple, white pants of linen and clean, black boots.

Brujon had stated that Porthos looked like the war veteran he was, Aramis looked like the scholar he had chosen to be these days. Athos, much to everybody's surprise, looked like a loving father. Brujon knew that Athos had been a Comte earlier in his life, and he remembered him as the impressive Captain he had been during the first years of the war. But when he had met Sylvie and he had become a father, d'Artagnan and Brujon had agreed that Athos had truly found his calling.

He, Sylvie and their son Raoul had moved to the countryside when they had left Paris, and together, they had travelled a lot, seeing different countries outside of France too. Since Raoul had been fourteen, Athos was a single father. After the loss of Sylvie he had barely visited Paris, and he focused all of his attention on his son and the village they were currently living in. He and Raoul were always busy taking care of their neighbors who often suffered under ruthless attacks from bandits or were just victims of the war, and they continued to do Sylvie's work. They were gracious, and giving. The woman had brought a side of Athos back to the surface he had kept hidden for many years. Here and there, Athos' connections to Paris also came in handy.

The former Captain and unofficial leader of the Inseperables now brought his horse up next to Aramis' and dismounted.

"Athos," Aramis greeted him with a wide smile on his face. "You look unusually relaxed. And, you know…," he furrowed his brow, "…not grumpy."

Athos took his horses' reins and laid a hand on Aramis' shoulder.

"I don't see any reason right now, my old friend," he replied with the hint of a grin.

"True," Aramis added and the both men hugged each other. Brujon himself had no clue when these two had last seen each other, but judging from their behavior, it's been some time as well.

"Porthos!" Athos then exclaimed and the general enclosed his friend in a bear hug, radiating so much joy that it was definitely an unusual sight in this courtyard for the past time.

Athos then walked up to d'Artagnan, the Captain almost grinning childishly.

"Captain," Athos addressed his old friend with a smile.

"Athos," d'Artagnan returned to his mentor.

"I see you demonstrated us what you did out of the garrison. What you made out of your men."

D'Artagnan arched an eyebrow, his eyes quickly roaming over his men. "I did."

Athos nodded. "Well, it's really impressive. I may've said that before, but now I'm certain that I chose the right person to do this job."

They eyed each other for another split second, before they too greeted each other with a welcoming hug.

Constance was next, and Athos planted a kiss on her cheek.

"How's Raoul?" she asked kindly and elicited a laugh out of Athos.

"Oh, he's doing well. He's with Christine at the moment," he answered truthfully.

Constance smiled mildly. "He likes her?"

Athos grimaced. "He's madly in love with her. I never knew my son could be such a charmer."

Porthos chuckled. "Well, he didn't got that one from his father."

Athos just glared and barely noticed Aramis patting his shoulder in amusement. "Good thing he had me to teach him some things when he was younger, right?"

Athos looked seriously surprised but then he groaned. "I should've known."

D'Artagnan couldn't help but laugh. "You are not actually surprised by that, are you, Athos?"

The swordsman crossed his arms in front of his chest and just shook his head in resignation. Aramis smiled and tapped his friend's arm.

"Just in case he doesn't succeed with his charm, I want you to know I wash my hands in innocence."

Athos sighed, an amused grin on his face. "Sorry. Now, you're not getting out of that."

Then he noticed the Captain's children lined up next to Constance and he slowly approached Isabelle.

"You get more beautiful with each year passing by," Athos said softly and kissed Isabelle on the cheek as well. He, just as Aramis and Porthos, handled the Captain's family like their own.

"And I thought Aramis was the one for compliments," Gaulier remarked to Brujon's right and only received a kick against the shin from his friend. Gaulier pressed his lips together to prevent the curses from coming out of his mouth.

"No need to kick me," he hissed at Brujon, apparently thinking the others were deaf.

"I can punch you next time, if you'd prefer that," Brujon countered dryly.

Gaulier took a deep breath to answer, but stopped as soon as he noticed Athos staring at him. The swordsman rolled his eyes.

"Children," he muttered under his breath, but Brujon was certain to see amusement on his face.

Then, the three guests, heroes in the eyes of every man in this courtyard, stood side by side, facing Captain d'Artagnan with serious expressions.

"As much as I am delighted to see you again, I don't think that is the reason why you called us here," Athos stated carefully.

Porthos snorted. "What is it this time?"

"The honor of the musketeers?" Aramis suggested. "The reputation of the King? The war with Spain?"

"France," d'Artagnan stated simply before he received any other senseless suggestions.

Athos sighed and Aramis closed his eyes briefly.

"Of course," Porthos said in a tired, but slightly fretful voice.

"It's always France," Aramis added.

Athos took off his hat and ran a hand through his hair, before exchanging some deep and meaningful looks with Aramis and Porthos. They seemed to come to a conclusion Brujon wasn't able to understand, an old agreement perhaps, but Brujon could not grasp what it was.

"Times have changed, but some things just stay the same. Who will look out for France if not the musketeers?" Captain d'Artagnan spoke sincerely.

Aramis steered his gaze towards the ground, looking a little lost.

"We haven't been musketeers in a long time." He received confirming grunts from Porthos and Athos.

Those words hit the rows of the assembled soldiers like daggers. Brujon felt them shifting uncomfortably behind him, some others were absolutely frozen in shock.  
Just like the Captain.

"Really?" he asked a little bitterly and furrowed his brow. "You three are apparently too old to remember the musketeer's device, right?" He then smiled in sympathy. "Once a musketeer, always a musketeer. All for one, one for all. You taught me that. Don't you dare to forget it."

The mighty Porthos, looking like a sad puppy at the moment, caught d'Artagnan's gaze.

"Yeah." He made a short pause. "No, you're right. Thanks, my friend." He quickly threw a look at Athos and Aramis. "We are honored that you called us here. Tell us everything you know, we will stand by your side."

D'Artagnan nodded and pointed towards his office with his arm.

"We should go inside. Brujon, you're coming too."

With that, he headed inside, Porthos on his heels and Aramis and Athos side by side behind them.

Brujon came last, and he heard the faint comment Aramis was giving turned towards Athos.

"Did he just call us old?"

-MMMM-

"So, d'Artagnan," Athos started. "Tell us what exactly we're here for." He still had this sneering tone in his voice even though he had grown kinder and calmer ever since he had abandoned his position as the Captain of the musketeers. They were all surrounding the Captain's desk in his office, the three senior musketeers, the heroes as they were known in the regiment, waiting eagerly for the Captain to explain the situation.

Brujon was nervous too.

Contrary to d'Artagnan's belief, the Captain's musketeers had noticed for some time now that there was something off with the Captain. That he was hiding something from them. And judging by the Captain's weary face, Brujon was convinced it was something dangerous.

"Okay, so a few weeks back, I was hunting some bandits that had gotten a hold of some royal diamonds outside of the city. I passed a tavern near an old farm, and it's gotten quite…weird."

The Captain made a pause, noticing Brujon's eyes resting on him. So far, there was nothing Brujon didn't know already.

"When the innkeeper noticed my uniform, he started saying some stuff. Random stuff, absolutely senseless, one sentence with no connection to the next one. But there were two words he was saying constantly."

"And what would those two words be?" Porthos asked interested, his brow furrowed in concern.

D'Artagnan swallowed hard, and he looked straight at Athos.

"King and danger."

Brujon noticed Aramis flinching violently, and Brujon knew that he and the King had gotten along very well during Aramis' time as a minister. He had been a mentor for a huge part of the young King's life.

"And what else did he say?" Athos wanted to know, placing a placating hand on Aramis' shoulder, Brujon noticed.

D'Artagnan shrugged.

"A lot of nonsense. I just noticed that he used these two words very often. He pointed out how serious I have to take my duty among the musketeers, and that we are France's only hope and it went on and on. He clung onto my sleeve as if his life depended on it. I had a bizarre feeling about it so I paid for my drink and left. But his words they…they…," the Captain stuttered. Brujon had never seen him so devastated. "They haunted me," he finally confessed.

"And what did you do then?" Athos wanted to know matter-of-factly, still keeping a firm grip on Aramis' shoulder whose eyes were widen open in horror.

"I felt the need to dig further, to find out if there was a greater meaning behind it." He sighed. "Well, I received my answer."

"You didn't tell me you went back there," Brujon threw in confused but he was interrupted by an impatient Porthos.

"What answer?" he demanded to know.

"Let's just say apparently, I was the last person the innkeeper spoke to. Ever."

Aramis drew in a sharp breath. "He was killed?"

D'Artagnan grimaced. "To state it lightly, yes. His head was chopped off and his tongue was ripped out. The message was quite clear."

"A warning," Athos concluded, his face empty of any emotions.

The Captain nodded. "But those killers were inattentive. I, for my part, searched the poor man's belongings. In his last hours, he wrote some notes, apparently hoping I would get the message somehow."

"A brave soul," Aramis murmured, his eyes locked on the dirty timbers of the floor.

"He told me about a secret…organization," d'Artagnan continued his explanations, "one that makes profit from chaos and the suffering of the innocent. They have made it their goal to murder the king, to precipitate France into a new darkness."

"When?" Aramis asked.

"Where?" Porthos threw in almost simultaneously.

D'Artagnan sighed and held up a hand, to signal them he would get there.

"Two days ago, I chased a man who had murdered a blacksmith here in Paris. The same way they had killed this innkeeper. I found him, and…" He cleared his throat. "Persuaded him to tell me more. He was a young and god-fearing man, I think he wanted to get rid of his sins. So he told me everything I needed to know about when and where this organisation plans to strike."

"And?" Aramis asked impatiently.

"In the early morning hours, about seven o'clock. The King wants to welcome a diplomat from the Netherlands to his halls. That's when they want to strike."

"This secret organization," Athos chipped in with his usual indifferent tone, "What do you know about them?"

D'Artagnan shook his head in exasperation.

"Not much. They're a bunch of deserters and mercenaries. They may have some members among the palace guard. But I know that they are insanely dangerous. We cannot let them succeed!"

Porthos growled. "Well, then why haven't you taken them out? Tell me where, lend me a handful of men and I'll take care of it."

"You're familiar with the meaning of the word secret, right Porthos? If I would know where they are, I would've made the strike a long time ago."

"Maybe we should…," Aramis threw in but someone busting the door open loudly interrupted whatever Aramis thought they should or should not do. Two musketeers came running in, in which Brujon recognized the Vidant-twins. Arture and Valentin Vidant were young musketeers, but they were some of the most loyal the garrison had to offer. The Captain had picked them up at the Court de Miracles, after they unluckily tried to rob him. He had given them a chance at the garrison and thanks to their eager will to learn, they quickly have become indispensable. And the brothers had originally been released from attending their duty this evening, in fact, the Captain hadn't even told them about it.

"Captain, Sir, we…," they panted almost simultaneously before they froze on the spot, their eyes locked on the three strangers standing in the room, probably painting a bizarre picture.

Brujon had to try very hard to suppress a smile when he saw their faces, their jaws literally dropping and their eyes wide in admiration and surprise.

D'Artagnan, despite their tense situation, grinned a little too and took a step aside.

"Athos, Aramis, Porthos," he said and gestured towards the musketeers. "May I introduce you to Arture and Valentin Vidant? Two ambitious and incredibly reckless young musketeers who I am beyond delighted to consider part of this regiment."

The twins bowed their heads quickly.

"So, basically they are you twenty-five years ago, no?" Porthos murmured in amusement.

D'Artagnan rolled his eyes.

"What do you have to tell me?"

The twins hectically looked at the other men assembled in the office, apparently unsure if they could just speak.

"It's okay. They know everything."

Valentin swallowed nervously. "We found another one of them here in Paris, Sir. They are here."

Brujon felt a sting of jealousy as he realized that the twins knew about the whole affair longer than Brujon had. But on the other hand, d'Artagnan was the Captain. He could choose who he'd tell about the plan.

"Then we need to act, now." He looked at his three closest friends for confirmation and they nodded.

"It will not be the same as it was all these years ago, but we'll stand at your side, lad."

Brujon noticed d'Artagnan glaring angrily at Porthos for the name, but it was no true anger.

"Yes, we could use some armor," Aramis added, before casting a glance at Porthos. "Well, at least Athos and I need some."

D'Artagnan nodded and turned around, heading towards the chest that he kept in the corner of his office. For many years, Brujon had wondered what he kept in there. 

Now, he knew.

The Captain took some musketeers uniforms and the pauldrons out of the chest. They used different ones now, but those were the uniforms his friends had worn during their time as musketeers.

"I kept them in case you needed them again," the Captain explained as he handed out the personalized pauldrons. The three of them stared at them admiringly, a proud spark glistering in their eyes.

Athos put his hat on his hair and he looked determined.

"Then we should not waste any more time. We have a king to save."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bit tricky, because I somehow managed to lose the file of this chapter, but here we are.   
> This chapter was weird. Very nervous to hear how you liked it.


	13. At a Brother's Side

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Inseperables work out a plan to take on the unknown foe.

__

_There may be more beautiful times, but this one is ours – Jean-Paul Sartre_

The Inseperables, accompanied by Brujon and the Vidant-twins, stepped out of the Captain’s office, all now fully armed to the teeth.

Athos’, Porthos’ and Aramis’ presence truly threw all of them back into a different time, with their older, more classic uniforms and their overall impressions they left on the men. Judging by the way the other musketeers stared at them, they still could not believe that this reunion actually happened, and that the heroic group they knew out of stories finally found their way back together. 

The Captain stayed at the top of the stairs, Athos, Aramis and Porthos lined up a few steps below him. The entire musketeer regiment was assembled in the courtyard, staring expectantly at their captain. They still had no idea why they were called here, apart from the welcoming for the three senior musketeers. Brujon quickly took his usual place at Gaulier’s side. 

D’Artagnan took in a deep breath, ready to explain everything, when suddenly, Athos whispered something to him, his eyes worriedly roaming all over the place.   
The Captain nodded and then made his way down the steps, his brothers by his side. It was the picture of Brujon’s youth, that reminded him of the time where Spanish spies knotted their webs in the palace, sons of war swore to destroy France’s succession and cardinals plotted to assassinate the Queen for the sake of the country. All of it was prevented thanks to the four men standing in front of him, plus the Captain they all had sworn to never forget. 

Captain d’Artagnan came to a halt in front of them, and gestured them all to come closer. They obeyed and formed a huddling crowd in front of their superior. 

“Athos here,” d’Artagnan began and shot the man a grateful look, “pointed out that I should keep this as quiet as possible. I’ll give you the short version: the King is in danger.”

A surprised murmur spread through the rows of men. 

“We have valid information that there will be people trying to murder him tomorrow when he will welcome the diplomat from the Netherlands. Gaulier, Rissé,” he pointed at the two musketeers and signaled them to step forward. “Each of you will form a group. Pick your men. Gaulier, I want you to secure the throne room when the diplomat arrives in the morning.”

Gaulier nodded, his face full of determination. 

“Rissé,” Captain d’Artagnan continued. “You secure every entrance. Nobody but the musketeers is allowed to get in or out of the palace, understood?”

Rissé saluted feebly. “Yes, Sir.”

Brujon waited for a second, before he hesitantly decided to speak up. “What about me? Where do you need me?”

The Captain looked at him with a certain pride. “You’re coming with us. The four of us plus you will guard the King personally.”

“Wait.” Athos’ voice was barely more than a whisper, and he now pulled at d’Artagnan’s shoulder, and the Inseperables and Brujon were a little isolated from the rest.

“Are you alright?” Porthos asked the swordsman, a worried frown on his face. Athos looked very tense. 

“What makes you think the King will just accept us in a room with him, let alone guard him? Except for you, the three of us haven’t worn this armor in a long time.”

“That doesn’t change the fact that you three are musketeers, you always were and always will be. “ D’Artagnan looked at Athos as if to question his sanity. “Athos, I’m the Captain of his personal elite-guard. He’ll accept whoever I put in front of him.”

“He trusts me,” Aramis added casually. “And he’ll trust you too.” He smiled and patted Athos’ arm reassuringly. “I taught him everything about the musketeers, my friend. He knows our values, and he also knows our stories.” He made a short pause. “By the way, his favorite one is the one with Raoul in Rouen.” Brujon could almost hear the marksman grinning. 

Athos’ eyes widened. “You told the damn King about it?”

Aramis shrugged. “Sylvie gave me her permission. Besides, it’s the King. If his ten-year-old self asks for it, who am I to deny it to him?”

Athos scowled. “The bloody minister?” 

Aramis clicked his tongue. “Language, Athos.”

His friend just rolled his eyes, and finally focused back on the Captain. “Alright, let’s say the King accepts us and decides to put us into his personal guard…”

“That’s not his decision, it’s mine,” d’Artagnan corrected, but gestured Athos to go on. 

“What then?” the swordsman finished. “Are we just going to wait in the throne room until we’re getting shot at?”

“No,” Porthos answered. “’Cause that would be stupid.”

“Do I really have to remind you how many of your stupid plans actually worked?” Constance had joined them, and she mustered all of them with a sharp look in her eyes. Isabelle and Alexandre were by her side. 

Porthos chuckled weakly. “Yeah, but that one is just too dumb to actually work.” He exhaled slowly and his dark eyes wandered over the assembled group of friends. “Alright, any ideas?”

Athos bit his lip thinking. 

“I’ll do whatever is necessary to keep the King safe,” Aramis declared, his voice so low only they could hear it. 

“That’s very honorable, but not exactly a plan,” d’Artagnan determined and he gazed up at Porthos. “Come on. I know you got something up your sleeve.”

Porthos sighed. “I’m good with open battlefields, not with the narrow halls of the palace.” He exchanged a quick look with Athos. 

The swordsman ran a hand through his hair. “We cannot cancel the meeting with the diplomat.” D’Artagnan shook his head in agreement.

“No, whoever the attackers are, they would know immediately something is wrong. And our chance to capture them is gone.” To their side, they could hear Constance quietly talking to Alexandre.

“Hey, Porthos?” Aramis raised his voice and his eyes rested on his old friend. “Remember the time we had to accompany the Comte de Vizart out of a besieged castle? It was in ’29, I think?” 

Porthos narrowed his eyes. “Oh, that time you almost got shot?”

Aramis rolled his eyes. “Yes, exactly that one.” 

Porthos grunted confirmatively. “Wait, didn’t you end up with a bullet in the leg?” 

“Care to explain what’s going on?” Athos threw in impatiently, his cold eyes fixed on Porthos. “I remember you two going on that mission, but what does it has to do with our current situation?”

Porthos raised his hands in defeat and shrugged. “Dunno. That guy was an ungrateful idiot, after Aramis took a bullet for him just because…oh wait.”

Aramis grinned. “I see you’re getting the point.”

“That’s…” Porthos cleared his throat nervously. “That’s damn risky. But it could work.”

“For God’s sake!” d’Artagnan exclaimed and threw his hands up in exasperation. “Could you finally get to the point?” Athos too just stared in bitter expectation. 

“The Comte de Vizart could have been Aramis’ twin,” Porthos explained. “After he lost his signature cloak, the two of them looked almost the same.”

“So, you’re suggesting we’re putting someone else in as the King?” d’Artagnan inquired, his eyes shining bright with the idea. 

“We’re isolating the King anyway. Nobody’s getting close to him. Once we know where those attackers are, we’re fighting them. But not with the true King as an open target.”

“I might know someone who could play the part.” D’Artagnan turned around, his head up high to overlook the rows of his men. “Hey, Traive. Come here.”

A young musketeer cadet turned around, and he was known for his resemblance with the young King. 

“He’s from a noble family,” d’Artagnan explained. “He knows the royal mannerisms. It could at least help us to get the target."

“And if there are palace guards among the attackers? They spent so much time around the King that they’ll know immediately what’s going on.” Athos clearly wasn’t convinced. 

“Those who want to cause no harm won’t say a word,” Aramis explained. “Our presence at the King’s side basically explains everything. And if there is someone among the guards, then it doesn’t matter what kind of plan we come up with. We’re screwed anyway.” 

“Confidence, Aramis,” Porthos admonished.

Aramis waved with his hand. “Yeah, I am confident. And Athos, I can almost feel your doubts in the air. You’re thinking that the King’s guards, where the true King will be in the meantime, will be the next target, which puts the King in possible danger again.”

“Something among those lines, yes,” Athos admitted dryly.

Aramis made a step forward, his hand resting on Athos’ shoulder. Brujon was watching the whole scenario quietly. 

“Let me assure you, my friend,” Aramis spoke softly, his brown eyes flickering with determination. “I’ll protect the King with my life. But this may help us identify the attackers, and eliminate them before it’s too late.” 

“If the brave Traive is willing to do so, of course,” Porthos added and he looked at the young man who had just joined them. The young cadet just raised an eyebrow, an unnatural arrogance on his face.

“It’s the King. As long as you can guarantee me that you’ll have my back, I’m willing to take the risks.”

“Spoken like a true musketeer,” d’Artagnan said with a thin smile on his lips.

“What about the Queen?” Constance asked out of nowhere. “You’re not keeping her in the middle of it all, are you?”

“Of course not!” Aramis exclaimed, his face deadly serious now. He looked very tense. “No, the Queen is not going to be there in the first place.”

“And who of you is going to secure her safety and look after her?” Constance questioned and tilted her head.

D’Artagnan nervously shifted from one foot to the other. “Maybe the palace guards can take care of the Queen. They’ll protect her.”

Aramis and Constance shouted “No!” in unison, Aramis slightly shocked, Constance slightly upset. 

“The very same palace guards that failed to protect his majesty from brutal mercenaries just three weeks ago?” Constance asked her husband with doubt in her voice.

“Excuse me, _what_?” Aramis wanted to know, but Porthos laid a restraining hand on his shoulder. 

Constance sighed. “I’ll do it,” she stated, her arms folded in front of her chest. 

“If this goes sideways, I don’t want you in possible danger!” d’Artagnan declared with a firm voice, but Constance just raised an eyebrow. The expression in her eyes could freeze the whole city all over. 

“You want me to let you go in there, alone?”

“He isn’t alone, Constance,” Aramis tried to rescue his friend but he backed away immediately after being murdered by the power of Constance’s eyes. 

“Some things never change,” the marksman murmured between clenched teeth to Porthos, who tried to hide the amused chuckle.

“At least not for you, mon ami.”

Brujon just watched. It was remarkable how the three men known as heroes in the whole regiment managed to perform a dance on the small line between professionalism and humor, when faced with the possible downfall of the entire country. But maybe that was their secret. That the bond they shared was the ground they could perform this dance on.

“What about Isabelle and Antoine?” D’Artagnan asked bluntly and slightly reproachful. A dangerous spark lit up in Constance’s eyes.

“I’ll send them to Elodie. They will be safe there.” Her daughter’s protest was drowned out by d’Artagnan’s discontent snort. 

“I don’t like it,” he merely stated, and exchanged a brief look with Brujon, who just raised a helpless eyebrow. 

“I will be fine,” Constance added and clasped d’Artagnan’s hand tightly. “But the garrison is no safe place for us then. This will be an enemy’s first target.”

“Oh, but the palace is safe?” Athos interrupted harshly, clearly siding with d’Artagnan on this one. “Don’t get me wrong, but the palace is probably the most dangerous place you could possibly choose to stay in right now.”

“I am not _choosing_ to stay there,” Constance countered sharply. “I am rescuing the Queen. I owe it to her.” She threw a deep look at Aramis, who was watching the whole scene in silence now.

“And you’re putting yourself in the line of fire!” D’Artagnan almost shouted now, and Brujon was sure to see desperate tears in his eyes. He was scared. He was truly scared about their fate. nf

“D’Artagnan!” Constance’s voice was unfamiliarly soft. “You know that I am capable of it. I owe it to her majesty. I’m not asking for permission.”

The Captain just stared at her, and the whole scene broke Brujon’s heart. He had never seen the Captain so openly scared.

“I’ll come with you.” That was Isabelle’s voice.

“No!” Constance and d’Artagnan answered in unison. 

“I can’t just sit around here, and do nothing!” the Captain’s daughter argued, her eyes resting furiously on her parents. “You didn’t raise me like this!”

“It is too dangerous!” d’Artagnan explained, and he received supportive nods from Aramis and Athos who stood at their friend’s side.

“Porthos?” Isabelle looked up to the big musketeer, and she laid a hand on the man’s thick armor. Since she grew up with Porthos’ daughter Marie, they had a special bond. 

“I’m sorry,” Porthos whispered, and forced a sympathetic smile. “But your father is right. It is too dangerous.”

Isabelle looked angry, but she seemed to realize she stood no chance. She turned back towards her father. 

“Papa, please!”

“I said no!”

Isabelle had tears in her eyes, and then, in front of all the staring and anticipating musketeers, she fell into her father’s arms. 

“I can take care of myself!” she declared and looked up into d’Artagnan’s eyes. He just calmly ran a hand over her brown locks. 

“I know,” he said, and his voice finally lost its tenseness. “But I need you to be safe. And I need you to look after your brother, while your mother and I and the musketeers take care of the King and the Queen.” He smiled and pulled a out a pistol, which he then laid into Isabelle’s capable hands. “Can you do that for me?”

Isabelle bit her lip, but eventually, she nodded and gazed at her parents with tears in her eyes. “Take care.” Her eyes came to rest on Aramis, Porthos and Athos as well, which she loved as part of her family. “All of you. I know that you’ll come back to me.”

Constance looked at her daughter. “How do you know?”

Isabelle mounted a horse, and Porthos placed Alexandre in front of her. “You are my family,” she then said. “All of you are. And you take care of each other.” She gripped the reins even tighter. “Besides, you are just going to save France. Just another mission for the Inseperables, right?” 

She may only be fourteen years old, but she looked and acted exactly like her mother when Brujon had first met her. It was almost scary. He watched her gallop through the garrison’s gate now, and he noticed Aramis walking up to the Captain and his wife.

“Another woman this world of men has to fear,” Aramis commented softly, and Constance smiled while d’Artagnan winked and had a proud expression on his face. 

“Her temper will be my downfall one day,” he explained with a sigh, before he took off his hat and ran a hand through his hair. 

“Guess it runs in the family, heh?” Porthos threw in and gently elbowed his old friend, aware of the amused look Constance shot him. 

“Okay, so it’s decided? I’ll go to the Queen and keep her away, yes?” Constance immediately got back to business.

“Alright, alright.” The Captain threw his hands up in despair. “But you’ll take the Vidant-Twins with you. And I need a promise.”

Constance just approached her husband and placed a kiss on his lips. “I know. If the situation turns dire, I’ll take the Queen and run as far away as I can.”

“I love you,” d’Artagnan simply said, his eyes locked on hers. 

She smiled sadly. “You all better come back in one piece.” 

Without wasting any more time on words, she mounted a horse Rissé brought her, and gratefully accepted the weapon Porthos handed her. She grasped the reins with gloved hands, 

“I’ll see you all when the sun rises.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, only two chapters left. Thank you for reading!


	14. The Bond We Share

__

_“Friendship throws out deep roots in honest hearts, D'Artagnan. Believe me, it is only the evil-minded who deny friendship; they cannot understand it.” - Alexandre Dumas_

They arrived at the palace’s gates in the very early morning and every musketeer was already dismounting and waiting for the Captain to give the orders.

“Are you sure you want to do this?” d’Artagnan was asking his friends. “I never meant to force you to do anything.”

Athos didn’t twitch a muscle and Porthos just arched an eyebrow. Aramis chuckled weakly. 

“We are surrounded by the beauty of intrigue and danger. What more could a man want?” he said with a mischievous smile and received confirming nods from both sides. 

D’Artagnan sighed. “Very well. But you know that we don’t know what exactly we are dealing with, right?”

Porthos rolled his eyes. “That’s what makes it so exciting.”

D’Artagnan was not so amused. 

“There is a chance that we do not get out of this alive.” It was a statement that tolerated no denial. 

Athos made a step forward, gripping the hilt of his sword. “We have been soldiers for a long time. We know what comes with it.”

Aramis nodded. “I grew up among soldiers. I joined the musketeers when I was still barely more than a boy. I learnt what to fight for a long time ago, _Captain._ ” He took a ridiculously respectful bow after that, making d’Artagnan sigh in exasperation. 

“It’s not death itself I’m scared of,” Porthos added. “It’s dying without honor.”

“This is not for you, d’Artagnan,” Aramis said, and the wisdom of his age glistered in his eyes. He shook his head.“ And it’s not for me either” 

Athos grimaced. “This is for everything we once were.” He lowered his head, and eagerly finished off cleaning his rapier. “…and might be again,” he added, the corners of his mouth curling up to form a crooked grin.

D’Artagnan nodded, a sad look in his eyes. “We’re soldiers. We follow our orders, no matter where they lead."

Aramis furrowed his brow. “That one seems oddly familiar.”

D’Artagnan grinned. “Yes, ‘cause it’s you who said it.” 

“Ah, well, now I know why I never became a poet.”

Athos grunted dryly and smacked his friend’s back lightly. “Don’t know what you’re talking about. You created the most beautiful and annoying verses I’ve ever heard.”

Aramis just glared at him, before he clasped his hand over his heart. “Thanks, Athos. I’m flattered.”

“And I’m gonna freeze on the spot if we don’t move soon,” Porthos chipped in from the side and impatiently cradled his pistol in his arms. “And all this talking here won’t help us save the King.” 

“We’re men of action after all,” d’Artagnan stated and gave Gaulier and Rissé the signal to lead their groups to the different places. The two musketeers nodded and turned towards the other men, hissing their orders. 

“We should be careful,” Porthos murmured, his brown eyes worriedly on the palace’s gates. 

“We still have about an hour until the meeting,” Brujon said skeptically, but he too felt unease creep up his back. 

“Why is nobody out here, guarding the gates?” Aramis wanted to know, his voice full of worry and he approached d’Artagnan, who just stared at him, a little irritated. “Where are the palace guards?”

“They must’ve received order to do so.” He made a short pause. “Alright, we’ll go inside. We need to find out where the King is. Are you sure you want to do that, Traive?”

The young man, who really looked like the King’s brother at least, nodded eagerly. “I’m ready. Just…try not to get me killed, will you?”

D’Artagnan snorted. “You see who is protecting you, right?”

“I can guarantee nothing,” Porthos stated bluntly. “But I’ll try my best.”

“That’s enough for me,” Traive concluded and sighed. He looked worried, but they all were. There was a lot of tension in the air, and Brujon witnessed d’Artagnan exchanging some deep, meaningful looks with his old friends before he turned on the heel and headed inside the palace, the others followed him, all carefully surveying the area.

Once they were inside, Brujon spotted two palace guards, casually leaning against the decorated inner walls of the palace, chatting lively with each other. When d’Artagnan and the others made their impressive entrance, they got startled, and suddenly hurried to get back into their straight and unmoving positions near the wall, but it was too late. 

D’Artagnan angrily walked up to them, and grabbed one of them by the collar. “The King. Where?” He left no time for nice words.

“Sir, I don’t think you can…,” the man weakly protested, but then he saw Porthos, towering up behind the Captain, looking as grim and intimidating as possible.

“Oh, I can,” d’Artagnan said and strengthened his grip. “Don’t make me ask twice.”

Athos walked up and put a calming hand on d’Artagnan, which led to the Captain letting go of the man and giving the guard some space. 

“His chambers, Sir,” the guard finally stuttered and vaguely pointed into the direction where the King’s private chambers were located. 

“Why is no one guarding the gates outside?” Aramis had approached, his brow furrowed with worry and anger, as he too had to be reminded by Athos’ hand not to threaten the guard physically. 

“Is nobody out there?” the man asked, confusion written all over his face. 

Athos, standing between Aramis and the guard now, raised an eyebrow, his expression as cold and calculating as usual. “Was my friend hard to understand?” he sneered. 

The guard shook his head, clearly intimidated. “No, no…I mean, if there’s nobody out there, they must’ve received order to do so.”

D’Artagnan sighed. “Yeah, that’s what I said. But who ordered them to do so?”

“I..uh..,” the guard stuttered, not sure what to answer. “Minister Fournier, probably.”

D’Artagnan rolled his eyes, and Athos suddenly had a very hard time to restrain a growling Aramis. Fournier served as a minister under Louis XIV, mostly responsible for affairs of war. It was Porthos who walked up and gently patted the guards shoulder. 

“It’s okay. Listen, you need to be extra careful now. I want you be vigil, and make sure nobody but the musketeers comes through these gates. You’ll receive orders from the musketeer Rissé. Understood?”

“No offense, but who are you to give me orders?” the guard responded skeptically. He was elbowed hard by his neighbor. 

“Are you crazy? That’s General du Vallon, you idiot.” 

The guard’s eyes widened when realization hit him. His eyes wandered over d’Artagnan, Aramis and Athos and he finally seemed to put the pieces together. He knew d’Artagnan, but it seemed as if he hadn’t recognized the other three. He was probably too young to remember any of them.

He now quickly bowed his head. “My apologies. We’ll be careful and watch out. Thanks for the warning, Sir.”

He carefully gazed up at Porthos, scared of his reaction, but the big musketeer just chuckled amused before he turned to Athos and Aramis and started dragging 

“If I get my hands on this treacherous snake…” Aramis was rambling and Brujon couldn’t resist. 

“What is it with you and Fournier?” he asked curiously, and received a warning glare from his Captain. Aramis, on the other hand, acted as if he hadn’t heard him. 

“I should’ve known,” he continued as they headed towards the King’s private chambers in a fast pace. Porthos walked up at his brother’s side and yanked him back by the shoulder. 

“Aramis!” His tone was insistent. “Brujon is right. Maybe Minister Fournier gave some questionable orders, but that’s not our priority now. Whatever your personal vendetta against this man is, you need to focus on saving your…” He threw a side-glance at Brujon and Traive and quickly cleared his throat. “On saving the King.”

Aramis looked dangerously calm now, and when Brujon looked in his face, he only saw worry and fear. 

“Fournier is corrupt,” the marksman simply said, his gaze locked on Porthos. “And he is most likely involved in this whole affair. But yes, what happened between the Minister and me is a story for another time.”

“So, if we happen to run into him, shoot first, ask questions later?” Athos subsumed wryly. 

Aramis bit his lip. “Just…don’t trust anyone but the King himself.”

“I know that, my friend,” d’Artagnan admitted and sighed. “Come on, now.” D’Artagnan led the way through the magnificent and ornated hallways. Brujon had spent the last twenty years of his life in the musketeer regiment. But he has never been to the King’s private rooms.

They came to a stop in front of a giant doorway, and the Captain hastily knocked three times. There was no guard nearby, and all of them grew even more nervous.

“Yes?” The unmistakable voice of Louis XIV. could be heard from the other side of the door, and the Inseperables did not waste any more time. Captain d’Artagnan opened the door and they entered the dining room, followed by Brujon and d’Artagnan. 

The King was seated at a table. He was still a very young man about Athos’ height, his shiny, dark-blonde hair gathered behind his ears. His facial features were raw and striking, but he looked up to them with his brown, kind eyes. The King was already clothed for the welcoming of the diplomat in less than an hour. 

He first spotted d’Artagnan, and a gleeful spark lit up in his eyes. 

“Captain!” he used a cloth to dab his face before he rose from his seat.

“Your majesty.” Captain d’Artagnan, Brujon and Traive took a bow, the three older musketeers hesitated, but eventually lowered their heads too. The King furrowed his brow and he slowly walked past d’Artagnan towards the three older men. 

“Aramis.” He sounded surprised, but delighted at the same time. Aramis slowly lifted his head to look at the young man. Brujon knew that he had basically raised the King, and had been his mentor for a huge part of his life. That’s why the King, despite royal mannerisms and all, did not hesitate to pull the former minister into a short hug. 

“You’ve been deeply missed here,” Louis spoke, before his eyes landed on Porthos.

“Welcome home to Paris, Porthos,” he greeted, and tilted his head in a greeting manner. Everybody in the regiment knew how much respect the young King had for one of his finest generals. Porthos bowed his head again, before the King turned towards Athos. 

The swordsman raised his voice first, but he looked at the ground. “Your majesty.”

Louis had a broad smile on his face. He hadn’t met Athos often, but the stories Aramis had told him spoke for themselves. He tried to catch the older one’s gaze. 

“Athos. What a pleasure that you found your way back to Paris again. How’s your son?” He made a short pause, and sent the musketeer an apologetic look. “What was his name again?”

“Raoul,” Athos replied and hinted a smile. “He’s fine. Thank you, Sire.”

The King mirrored the smile. “I’ve got to admit, after everything that happened; I’m a bit surprised to see you in Paris again. Not that you’re not welcome here, of course. You know that the palace’s gates are always open for you.”

Athos made a declining gesture with his hand. “The situation called for it,” he admitted and exchanged a brief look with d’Artagnan. “And I wished that the circumstances of our meeting weren’t as dire as they are.”

Louis narrowed his eyes, and after having greeted Brujon and Traive, he turned back towards the Captain of his musketeers. 

“Care to explain the situation, Captain?” he asked sharply. 

D’Artagnan sighed and took off his hat. “Sire, we do have information that there is a plot to murder you when you will welcome the diplomat in your halls. It’s my duty to protect you, and to take on this unknown organization, and I called my old friends and the best musketeers I’ve ever known back to support me.”

“Why would somebody try to murder me?” The King looked genuinely scared and irritated. 

Aramis made a step forward. “We don’t understand everybody’s motives. But we fear that the danger comes from inside these walls.”

Louis raised an eyebrow. “Like, who?” 

D’Artagnan just nervously shifted on his feet, Aramis bit his lip in uncertainty. Porthos stared at the King, not sure what to say.

“Like Minister Fournier, for example,” he explained bluntly. Before the King had a chance to respond, Aramis jumped in too.

“He removed the guards from the gates. Anyone could’ve come in here within the past few hours.”

“Listen, Aramis,” Louis started, his voice firm and determined. “I know Fournier and you did not get along very well, but accusing him of trying to murder me? This is not the same as it was during Rochefort’s time.”

“Says who?” Porthos, luckily, had a reputation, and Louis, luckily, had a calm nature, otherwise this rude comment would’ve had consequences. 

The King glared at the General, but decided not to say anything. 

“But fine,” he continued, and addressed d’Artagnan again. “I believe you when you say I am in danger. May I ask what your plan is?”

And then, d’Artagnan started to explain everything. He told his majesty about the way he had met this organization for the first time, and he confessed how he got the information about the planned assassination. He told him about how he had asked for the help of his friends, as he felt like he needed their input and their brotherly support in order to take on this unknown foe. And, finally, he explained the plan, how they wanted to replace the King through a decoy, which would be the musketeer Traive.

Once he was finished, Louis had started pacing, his hands locked behind his back, apparently deep in thought. 

“That’s a good plan,” he said slowly. “So I’m supposed to wear the armour of a musketeer?”

Aramis nodded. “That’s the plan. Try to be as inconspicuous as possible.”

The King sent his mentor a sly grin. “Oh, I can do that.”

“We will keep you safe, your majesty,” Brujon added.

“And my mother?” Louis asked, slightly reproachful and with a temperamental spark in his dark eyes. 

“My wife is with her, together with two of my best musketeers,” d’Artagnan appeased him. 

The king nodded gratefully, before he began circling the young Traive. Brujon had to admit, they looked very similar. The hair was mostly the same, the height as well. Even their faces resembled each other, though Traive had a different eye color and a slightly longer face.

“And you,” Louis addressed Traive, his face full of skepticism. “I need to ask you, as my manners demand it. Are you willing to do this, and potentially risk your life for my defence?”

“It’s my pleasure, your majesty,” Traive answered immediately and received a scolding look from his Captain. 

“And, of course, my duty.”

-MMMM-

“I’ve got a bad feeling about this,” Brujon whispered. They were waiting in a small room next to the throne room. Traive had changed his clothes and was now wearing a doublet in royal blue, as well as everything else that would indicate him to be the King. The five musketeers plus the king in the musketeer armor surrounded him. Brujon could see how Porthos and Aramis kept the King between them, so that he would be mostly protected just in case.

“Me too,” d’Artagnan admitted next to him and under his captain hat, Brujon saw his eyes glistering with worry. “But it’s our only shot.”

They heard the signal from inside the throne room, which initiated the entrance of the King. The doors swung open, and together, the little group entered the large throne room. The diplomat hadn’t arrived yet, but every other member of the court was assembled for the formal ceremony. Palace guards were all over the place, mostly guarding the small passage where the diplomat would walk. 

Out of the corners of his eye, Brujon spotted Gaulier, whose face was tense but once he saw Traive dressed up as the king, he couldn’t hide an amused grin. The closer Brujon looked, the more musketeers he was able to make out between all the different court members. 

D’Artagnan was walking next to Brujon, and the younger musketeer could feel that there was something off with the Captain. 

“I see the palace guards every freakin’ day,” d’Artagnan murmured, so only his friends could hear him. “But I’ve never seen these men before.” He tilted his head towards the guards that stood near the passage.

“Then why are we walking the target in the middle of the room again?” Aramis hissed through clenched teeth, but Athos shot him a look that shut him up pretty quickly. 

They accompanied Traive to his throne. Queen Anne was nowhere to be seen, so Constance had arrived in time, Brujon thought. 

It looked a bit awkward, but eventually, Traive ‘the King’ came to a halt in front of the throne and raised his hand, so the others in the room could stop bowing their heads. The true king, however, was playing his role gloriously. He put on a grim face, but tried to plunge his own face into shadows by pulling down his hat, and he took his place between Porthos and Aramis. 

Brujon carefully let his eyes wander over all the people in the room. Many faces he had seen before, but there were also some he couldn’t remember, and he watched each of these people attentively. They might be those unknown attackers. 

A man walked up to the throne, where Traive was still standing. He had drawn a lot of attention. Brujon could see that many guards could see that this was not the true King, others did not seem to care.

“His Excellency, Comte Eduard van Loon.”

The doors swung open, and revealed that it was still rather dark outside. A man, about Athos’ age, walked through the doors, his head up high, and his chin raised proudly. About ten men in armour followed him thoughtfully, their hands on their pistols attached to their belts.

“Athos!” he heard d’Artagnan hiss behind him. The swordsman flicked his wrist as a sign that he had heard the Captain. 

“I know the diplomat. Eduard van Loon has visited the palace back in ’41. It’s been fifteen years, but that’s not the man I met all these years ago.” 

Their guest had heard their silent conversation, and he just grinned and took a bow in front of Traive, who looked down with as much authority and arrogance as he could muster.

“Your majesty,” the diplomat, apparently not Eduard van Loon, greeted him, and his eyes briefly locked on d’Artagnan. “I’m eternally grateful for this warm welcome. Please, accept this gift as an expression of my deepest gratitude.”

He snapped his fingers and two of his soldiers approached. Traive made a step forward, accompanied by Athos and Brujon, who also had a hand on their pistols.

“That’s...very generous of you,” Traive said with a firm voice. “I’ll open it as soon as this is done.”

The man in front of him just grinned. “I fear I have to insist. We put in a lot of efforts to find something special for your highness.”

Brujon saw Traive gulping, but eventually, he took the box with a trembling hand and opened it. He reached inside with his right hand, without a glove. A queasy feeling settled in Brujon’s stomach. Something was not right. Not right at all. 

Traive pulled out a ring, a simple golden one, but really nothing special for a King. Why would that be such a special gift for a King? That’s what the former musketeer captain at Brujon’s side seemed to think too.

“Wait!” Athos hissed, and Traive immediately dropped the ring and turned around to go to his Captain, but it was too late. Brujon saw a small wound on his hand, which looked like it was made by a needle. A drop of blood gathered on the musketeere's hand, and he looked more surprised than scared. But suddenly, he started swaying dangerously, and stumbled. He would’ve crashed to the ground if it wasn’t for d’Artagnan catching him last second. It took the Captain only a second to understand. Poison. Who knew what would've happened if Traive hadn't let go of the ring immediately.

“Guards!” he yelled.

A palace guard ran up, and somehow managed to push himself past Athos and Brujon to the King. 

“That’s not the King!” he exclaimed shocked, as Traive, white as a sheet and with a pained expression, clutched onto d’Artagnan’s sleeve. Brujon looked down in the face of the false diplomat and discovered him grinning with satisfaction, not at all surprised that 

One pistol after the other was shot, and out of reflexes, Brujon ducked his head and sprinted towards the true King. D’Artagnan was still at Traive’s side, but then, Gaulier and Rissé appeared out of nowhere.

“Get out of here!” Gaulier yelled and fired his pistol. “We’ll hold them off as long as possible.” He stood protectively over Traive, quickly checking him over. “He should be fine, I’ll take care of him. Now go!”

Athos granted him a grateful nod, before he and the others started running, Brujon at their heels. They managed to escape the throne room and arrived at a smaller door, the one the kitchen staff sometimes used, and which led outside. 

Aramis and Porthos still had the King between them, while d’Artagnan was busy reloading his pistol. Athos kicked the door open but pressed himself against the inner wall, and signaled the others to stay back.

“Just making sure you don’t get riddled with bullets as soon as we leave this room,” Athos declared, as he carefully peeked around the corner.

“How touching,” Aramis responded sarcastically, but with an excited grin on his face. No matter what was at stake, all four of them equally found their heart in the middle of adventure.

On Athos’ signal, they started running, the true King between them. Aramis was dragging him forward by the arm. They swiftly made their way over the small square of grass and entered the next building, which wasn’t part of the main palace, but still an impressive, two floor building at least. Usually, this was where the Minister of financial affairs had his office, as well as other rooms where the council would meet. Now, it was their shelter. They could hear the yelling as they closed the giant doors and headed into the next room, with a high ceiling and multiple, impressive paintings on the wall.

What startled them, however, were the many voices they heard yelling now, and the sounds of pistol shots growing louder, coming from all directions.

Porthos growled. “They wanted us here. We walked straight into a trap.” 

D’Artagnan lowered his eyes. “Which means...”

Brujon heard a subtle, hissing noise. But before he had the chance to warn his comrades, or even find out where it came from, he suddenly lost his footing as a loud bang blasted through a room above them. He had nowhere to run, and he could do nothing but watch as parts of the ceiling collapsed right on top of him.

For a moment, there was nothing but silence. There was a ringing in Brujon’s ears that drowned out every other noise, and the world that surrounded him seemed to move slower, as splinters and dust swirled through the air.

Then, the dust settled, and it gently rained down on them. Brujon was barely able to see. He knew he was buried somewhere underneath a pile of rubble, ancient paintings, and parts of the ceiling, and his hip was pounding painfully.

In the room, he was able to make out the four friends, more or less on their feet, all drawing their weapons to prepare for what was to come. Brujon did not see the attackers, he could only hear the feet rumbling over the ground. And Brujon watched how Aramis, Athos, Porthos and d’Artagnan stood back to back, more or less steady on their feet, the King secured protectively between them. 

Then, the door fell shut behind an advancing group of attackers, as another trembling ran through the palace. 

It was too late to run now. They were trapped.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Get ready for the finale. Thanks for reading!


	15. All for Love

__

_Fight valiantly today._  
And yet I do thee wrong to mind thee of it,  
For thou art framed of the firm truth of valor.  
-Shakespeare, Henry V 

It was a picture of bravery. Where others would’ve dropped their swords to surrender, where others would’ve knelt down on the dusty ground to beg for mercy and their own survival, Athos, Porthos, Aramis and d’Artagnan had nothing but angry faces and dangerous growls to offer, their expressions dark and determined. They bravely raised their swords, the King trapped between their broad shoulders.

Brujon was still lying on the ground underneath the shattered wood and parts of the ceiling, unable to move without help. His arms and legs were numb, and his mind was still stunned by the sudden impact that had thrown him off his feet. His vision was blurred, and he helplessly had to watch what was going to happen next.   
At least a dozen attackers had arrived through the now closed door, forming a straight line, slowly approaching the four musketeers. But they hadn’t attacked yet. They just tried to encircle them like predators, and cut every last possibility for the four friends to run. 

Then suddenly, the men stepped aside and made room for their leader to come forward. It was a tall man, with a figure that resembled Rochefort’s. His face was cleanly shaven, but some straight strands of raven black hair covered half of his face, highlighting his bright, but menacing grey eyes. He wore a thin, blue uniform, with a white cloak that was tucked together with a golden pin in front of his neck, given to him by the King himself. 

Brujon closed his eyes, as he tried to process the nature of the betrayal. Just like Aramis had told them, this was none other than Minister Fournier himself. Brujon had got to know him as a reserved, but kind human being, though he had a tendency for slightly violent outbreaks during council meetings. He was a good strategist, but he and d’Artagnan had never gotten along. They had very different opinion about the lives of innocent people in this war.

He saw Aramis tense visibly, and Athos tightened his grip around his sword. Porthos and d’Artagnan both tried to shield the King even further with their own bodies. 

“Well, would you look at that.” Fournier had the raspy, rattling voice of someone with a cold, or someone who had just been choked. “The heroes of the musketeer regiment, reunited again when it all comes together. Do you know what they say about you in the palace?”

“To be honest, I don’t give a damn,” Porthos replied bluntly, and his jaw tightened. 

“What a shame,” Fournier stated, the men next to him were frozen, all of them with their weapons prepared to strike.

“You, Fournier?” the King spoke up, though he was barely visible between all that musketeer armor. His facial expression spoke of shock and betrayal. “You, of all people? I trusted you.”

Minister Fournier almost looked apologetic. 

“But you made me the Minister of War. And war is just business.” He threw an evil grin towards Aramis. “I seem to be the only one to understand that. But right now,” he made a gesture with his hand and the line of attackers took another step forward. “Business is not looking good.”

“I entrusted Paris to your capable hands,” the King said, his voice quivering with anger and disappointment. “Paris and all of France. The war was also your responsibility!”

Fournier shook his head. “It still is, your majesty. And I take my duties very seriously.”

“And murder every man who stands in your way?” d’Artagnan asked bitterly, keeping a firm grip on the King.

“It’s not like he ever had sympathy for the innocent, nor did he ever care about anyone but himself,” Aramis spoke up for the first time, hissing the words through clenched teeth.

“I see you did not change, Aramis,” Fournier sneered, and his men came closer again. “Nor have you, Captain. I’m asking you all, politely: Hand the King over, and I’ll let you live.”

“Not happening,” Athos growled menacingly. His knuckles were white because he was prepared to lunge forward with his sword, doing what he had always been best at. 

“Oh, Athos.” Fournier glared at the swordsman, honest disappointment in his eyes. “And I thought you were the reasonable one.”

“I am,” Athos replied coldly, staring the Minister into the ground. “But I refuse to reason with someone who has lost all sense of humanity.”

“I would chase down all of Paris to get the King, if that’s what necessary.” Fournier showed no remorse, nor did he pay much attention to Athos’ words. He truly did seem to believe that his actions were what was best for France. And it was absolutely terrifying.

“Then you’ll have to get past us first,” Porthos declared, his pistol ready to be fired, his body protectively shielding the young King.

Fournier sighed. “You are outnumbered against my men.”

“I guess we’ll have to take the chances,” d’Artagnan hissed, his face dark and determined. 

“Sir, but…,” one of Fournier’s men looked at the Minister, his eyes wide with fear and doubt. “I mean, they are…”

“I know exactly who they are,” Fournier cut him off. “And we were prepared. The whole palace is prepared. There is no way they’ll get out of here.”

“Sweet,” Porthos muttered, rolling his eyes at Aramis, who hinted a tense grin.

“Yeah,” his friend added. “Confidence is everything, Fournier.”

The Minister stayed unimpressed, and showed no indication that he had heard the mocking words. He slowly raised his hand, ready to give the according signal. 

“This is nothing personal,” he growled. “It is just business.”

Then he made a fist and his arm shot down. There was a brief moment of hesitation, but then, the attackers roared in what sounded like a tangled war cry, and they started launching their attacks. 

Porthos’ pistol went off first, and the first attacker crashed to the ground with a gaping hole in his chest. Brujon was still trapped underneath the rubble, unable to do anything. He could only watch, and either celebrate the musketeer’s victory, or witness their slaughter. 

Watching the four friend fall back into the complementary dance of battle, each one fighting in their own style, knowing that the other one had his back. He watched how Aramis fought two attackers at once, knocking them out by using them against each other. He saw d’Artagnan forcing one of the men into defensive mode, and Porthos smashing the man into the table. Athos was still near the King, engaged in a classic, noble one-to-one duel with one of the attackers. Minister Fournier stayed by the door, watching all of it with a satisfied smirk.

All in all, the battle seemed even. Aramis, Porthos and Athos weren’t the young, energetic musketeers they once were anymore, but what they represented now had an even more menacing and dangerous effect. They were veterans, chasing the same goal even after thirty years of risking their life for it. And they were still the deadliest men Brujon had ever come across. When the four of them fought together, it seemed like no evil could harm them.

That’s when one of the attackers broke through Porthos’ defense line and managed to get a hold of d’Artagnan. The Captain immediately tried to fight back, but he was overwhelmed and thrown across the room, where he lost consciousness and lay sprawled on the floor. 

The others looked at their youngest member, and they heard Brujon yell furiously from where he was lying, and it distracted them for a short moment. In that particular moment, they worried more about their friend and brother than about the horde of enemies that swarmed the room. Which, of course, cost them all dearly.   
Porthos had to take a hard hit against his torso, but luckily, the semi-sharp sword did not manage to cut through the thick armor of the General. He grabbed his opponent’s sword arm and whirled the much smaller man around and threw him into the door, which burst open due to the impact. Porthos growled indignantly and finally unsheathed his sword to battle the next man. 

Athos had finished off his opponent with a swift strike to the leg and abdomen, and now assisted Aramis in getting rid of the two men who were trying to overwhelm the marksman. The two friends stood back to back, and in what looked like a choreographed dance of blades, they eagerly fought off and finally defeated their opponents. Then, the heat of the fight separated them again, and each one of them had their own fair share of enemies to deal with.

Athos relieved himself of an assailing enemy before the man even had a chance to strike, but despite Brujon’s warning, he was taken by surprise. An attacker hit him hard against the side of his head, so forceful that Brujon was sure to see a trail of blood running down his face. Before Athos had the chance to defend himself, or Brujon could yell out a warning, the swordsman was taken by two attackers and smashed into the table. Without uttering a single word, the swordsman stayed on the ground as he lost consciousness.

Porthos roared with anger at the sight of his two defeated friends and impaled one of the men who had fought Athos with his long broad-sword. He single-handedly took out another man who made an attempt to stab the general in the back, before he was disarmed. Losing his weapon did not stop Porthos. Without wasting a split second of time, he wrapped his hands around the attacker’s throat and pushed him against the shelf. The man gasped for air, and Porthos, in his state of rage did not see how his opponent got hold of an empty wine bottle, which he whacked over Porthos head. It knocked Porthos unconscious at once.

Aramis had just killed another man, and now turned back towards Fournier. Only Fournier and the man who had taken out Porthos were left. Aramis was the last man standing. His eyes were wide open in anger and his hand quivered with wrath, as he noticed all of his friends had been defeated. The marksman quickly lashed out with his sword, and caught Fournier by his right arm. But the minister of war was an experienced fighter as well, and he hadn’t spent the last few minutes embroiled in a heated battle like Aramis had. And he used it to his advantage. 

He swung his sword towards Aramis, who caught it with ease, but he hadn’t been prepared for the five next strikes that followed so quickly that Aramis almost lost his footing parrying them. Aramis threw a bottle at Fournier, but the minister dodged his head just in time and landed another hit on Aramis’ lower arm. The musketeer hissed and launched an attack, but Fournier made a step aside caught the strike with his own sword. 

For a moment, it was just like that. Two blades crossed, both men fighting hard to get the sharp metal into the other one’s flesh. But Aramis was exhausted, and distracted by his friends who were still on the floor. 

In a short moment, Fournier kicked Aramis in the abdomen and ripped the sword out of the marksman’s hands.

Aramis staggered backwards, unarmed, and currently outnumbered. He was breathing hard, his face a mask of hate as he stared at the sword Fournier now put against his neck. His eyes wandered over his defeated friends, who were grotesquely decorating the floor, all more or less conscious. Then, his eyes landed on the King. Louis was pressed into the corner of the room, armed with nothing but a dagger, his soft eyes wide open. He caught Aramis’ gaze, whose eyes seemed to beg for forgiveness.

“Oh, Aramis.” Fournier pressed the metal harder against the marksman’s neck. “Valiant until the end. All of you. And now see where it brought you.”

Aramis bore his teeth. “Why don’t you let me pick up my sword, and we’ll handle this like men, you damn coward?”

Fournier grinned, and his eyes flickered towards the helpless king. The man next to him looked across the room, always ready to protect his superior if necessary. 

“I am no simple man,” Fournier sneered. “I am France’s only hope now. So, you better kneel! Maybe I’ll be merciful.”

“I only kneel to the King,” Brujon heard Aramis say. “And God.”

“Then I’ll give you your chance after all, my dear Minister.” 

Tears gathered in Brujon’s eyes as he watched Aramis simply staring at Minister Fournier, his eyes cold and full of hate, as if to accept his fate with icy determination. Then, and Brujon had almost missed it, the corners of Aramis’ mouth formed a minor grin. 

That’s when Brujon spotted d’Artagnan, back on his feet again, and his gun levelled at the mercenary standing next to Fournier. A loud bang echoed through the room and the Captain grimaced slightly, but the mercenary let out a surprised gasp and crumbled to the floor. Aramis used the distraction and dove underneath Fournier’s blade, grabbed the man’s arm and pulled so hard on it that a loud crack could be heard as the shoulder was knocked out of its joint. Fournier howled in pain and stumbled backwards, where d’Artagnan kept him in check with his pistol.

“Not yet,” he growled into Fournier’s direction and he threw a glance at the King, who was still standing in the corner of the room, his face tense. 

“Louis, are you unharmed?” Aramis knew his priority was the King, and Brujon noticed that there was honest worry and concern in his voice. 

The King nodded, and he did not resemble his father at all. Louis the Thirteenth would’ve been shaken with fear, his son on the other hand did not left such an impression at all on Brujon. He looked a little scared, but more concerned about the others than about himself.

“I’m fine, Aramis,” he said, and he pushed himself off the wall and strode over to d’Artagnan, who was still keeping the minister in check. He stayed behind the Captain, but looked into the eye of the treacherous minister. “After all your efforts, you haven’t succeeded, Fournier,” Louis said with a sad smile. “You are charged with treason. And trust me, you’ll get your trial.”

Fournier just grinned. “Who says I have failed, your majesty?” he asked, but was silenced as the Captain dug the barrel of the gun into his neck. 

“You better shut up now,” d’Artagnan hissed, and the minister mockingly raised his hands in defeat.

Suddenly, Brujon felt hands on him, big hands who were trying to pull him out under all the rubble and shattered wood. The musketeer looked up into the warm eyes of Porthos, who eventually had regained his senses and all in all seemed quite well. It took him a few tries to get Brujon safely out of his misery, but after half a minute of pulling and shoving, Brujon was able to move again and he quickly scrambled to his feet, his eyes roaming all over the room to assess the situation. 

After Porthos had made sure that Brujon was mostly fine, he walked over to d’Artagnan and gently slapped his shoulder. Without saying a single word, they communicated, and Porthos took over d’Artagnan’s pistol and held Fournier at gunpoint, while the Captain quickly pulled the King with him, close to the next room. They were talking quietly, and then, d’Artagnan too watched the scene happening in the middle of the room now.

“Athos.” Aramis had approached the swordsman, who was sprawled on the marble floor, apparently not moving. The marksman quickly propped him up against the foot of the table, gently putting a hand on his face. “Athos, can you hear me?”

“...vie.” The mumbled answer could be missed with untrained ears, but Brujon’s were as sharp as ever, and he caught the desperate plea out of the former musketeer’s captain’s mouth. 

“Athos...” Aramis just said his name, but his voice sounded as if his heart had been torn in a million pieces. Brujon noticed Porthos watching and swallowing hard, clearly unable to show what he was feeling, though his wet eyes were filled with compassion and sadness.

“Sylvie.” This time, Athos’ plea was clearer, and easier to understand, which did not soothe them at all. He had received a hit on the head, so it was possible for him to be confused, but asking for his wife, not knowing exactly where he was, reminded each and every one of them how far they’ve come. 

“No, brother.” Aramis gently tapped the side of Athos’ face. “It’s me. It’s just me. I’m sorry.” 

Athos blinked a few times, his cold eyes scanning Aramis as if he was trying to remember what had happened. 

“I’m sorry,” Aramis repeated quietly, his strong hand on Athos’ aching shoulder. “But Sylvie will have to wait.”

It took Athos a few seconds, but then, Brujon saw recognition in his eyes and his hand darted towards the wound at the back of his head, his eyes closed in pain.   
When he opened his eyes again, Brujon was sure to see a spark of disappointment in them, as he realized his wife wasn’t with him. But it did not last long. His eyes wandered through the room, and locked on d’Artagnan and the King. 

“Is it done?” A simple question, but nobody was sure to have the right answer to it. Fournier was defeated, standing still at the other end of Porthos’ weapon, but his plan, his idea and his men were still here. 

“The King is safe,” d’Artagnan said from his place by the doorway. 

“For now,” Aramis corrected, gazing at Fournier. He held out a hand to Athos. “You think you can stand?”

Athos snorted, but gratefully accepted his friend’s helping hand, and Aramis pulled him to his feet carefully. The swordsman swayed dangerously, and clutched onto Aramis’ shoulder for support. 

“You good?” Aramis wanted to know, and did not even wait for the answer. He just took a look at the blood covering one side of Athos’ head and grimaced.

“My head,” Athos groaned and blinked multiple times.

“That’s a nasty head-wound, my friend. Try not to move around too much until we can take proper care of it.”

“The circumstances aren’t that easy,” Athos interjected bitterly and slowly walked over to Porthos and Fournier. 

“We should keep moving, or more of his men will come and try to trap us!” Aramis said to Captain d’Artagnan, who had gripped the King’s arm tightly. Brujon’s superior nodded and dragged his majesty through the open doorway and waited in sight in the other room. 

“What about Fournier?” he asked loudly, so that Porthos and Athos could hear him too. 

“Good question,” Fournier said, and gritted his teeth. “What do you plan on doing to me?”

“Let’s not waste time with this idiot,” Athos growled and rolled his eyes. 

“Yeah,” Porthos agreed. “Let’s just tie him up and leave him here until we’re safe.”

“You really believe that, do you?” Fournier snarled and narrowed his eyes. “I planned this for months. You actually think that I don’t have a Plan B?”

“You talk too much,” Porthos growled, but Athos raised a hand. 

“If you think having a lot of men as your personal army counts as a Plan B, then I’m honestly disappointed and wonder how you ever received the title you carry at the moment.”

“You know nothing about me, or my plans. Your descent is magnificent, Athos. From a rich nobleman, to a soldier, to a captain, and eventually to being no one.” The Minister’s eyes though weren’t looking at Athos, he was looking at the King and d’Artagnan, or at something in the air above them only he could see.

“Hey, we really gotta go...,” Aramis threw in from the side.

“If you aim to insult me, I’d first have to value your opinion,” Athos commented dryly into Fournier’s direction.

“Leave it, Athos,” Porthos said. “He’s just trying to distract...” His voice faltered.

Brujon noticed how Porthos’ experienced eyes flickered from Fournier to Captain d’Artagnan, and without explaining anything, his fist hit Fournier’s face so hard the Minister went down and lay on the ground in a heap.

“D’Artagnan, get away fr...” Porthos yelled, but did not get very far.

Then suddenly, another explosion ripped through the palace. Brujon drew his arm protectively over his head and closed his eyes as it rained down rocks and splinters, a blaze of heat passing his face. 

Slowly but surely, he dared to open his eyes again. And the picture he got was truly horrifying. 

There was Athos, on his knees, his face a picture of shock and terror, his eyes wide open, not even blinking when the blood slowly ran down his forehead and into his eye.

Porthos, who was slinging his arms around Aramis, who desperately tried to run towards the destroyed and burning pile of rubber and wood. The General was yelling something Brujon could not understand, and he closed his eyes with the sheer effort of holding his friend back.

And there was Aramis, who let out an agonized, terrified scream, as his teary eyes were locked on the spot where d’Artagnan and the King had been moments earlier.

And Brujon’s heart shattered.

-MMMM-

Time seemed to move much slower. He was feeling, and did not know what to do now. He had failed to protect the king. And he had failed in his loyalty towards his captain. What had happened in the last minute seemed to have destroyed the heroic image he always had in his head when he had thought of the Inseperables. 

Athos, the fierce, strong captain of the musketeers, reserved but caring, a master of his sword and keeper of his feelings. He was now on his knees, his cold eyes wide open in shock, his lips quivering with something that Brujon was sure could be fear. Or horror. He now just looked like a simple man, beaten and defeated.

Porthos, the warrior, the courageous fighter and most loyal friend a musketeer could wish for. He now had to physically restrain his brother, while he had silent tears running down his scarred cheek, unable to process what his eyes wanted to make him believe.

And Aramis, the charming, loving Aramis, a spiritual soul, a man who was able to comfort those surrounding him in the darkest hours of inhuman experiences. He was now yelling like a part of his own soul had been set on fire; and it was a sound that ripped through Brujon like a hot iron.

Brujon too stared in horror at the doorway where d’Artagnan and the King used to stand, now blocked with shattered pieces of wood, art and stone, a thick layer of dust covering it. 

“Captain!” Brujon shouted desperately, hoping to receive some sort of answer. His ears were still ringing from whatever had exploded somewhere above them. There was a massive hole in the ceiling now, blackened by whatever had caused it.

“D’Artagnan!” Athos had regained his senses now and scrambled to his feet, still swaying dangerously. Aramis’ struggling had weakened and he was frozen now, his eyes filled with such pain Brujon had never seen in the musketeer’s eyes before. It was horrifying. 

Athos stalked over to the blocked doorway, and violently started to shovel the rubble away. It seemed like he did not care that he cut his hands on the sharp wood and stone. He was determined, focused, and did not let go. 

“Porthos, help me with this!” 

The general slowly joined Athos, his face now an unreadable mask, and together they started to free the doorway, apparently hoping to find d’Artagnan and the King trapped underneath it.

They all flinched violently when they heard loud noises out of the other room, yelling, screaming and also gunshots. A flash of hope crossed Porthos’ face and he quickly gathered his dagger, before he exchanged some surprised and concerned looks with his brothers.

“D’Artagnan!” Aramis exclaimed, his hand darting towards his rapier. “Louis!” He turned around to look at the others. 

“Through the corridor. They’re in there. We need to get to them!”

“But what if...?” Brujon did not want to say the unthinkable, but he did not need to. Athos already answered his unspoken question.

“They would never shoot at a dead man. Somebody is in there, and he’s alive.” He firmly grabbed Aramis’ shoulder, and yanked him out of his trance. “Aramis.” He laid a bloody hand on the former minister’s cheek. “They might be alive. They will be alive. But they need us.”

Aramis did not need to be told twice. Porthos grinned darkly, and without hesitation, the four of them stormed out of the door Fournier had entered some time earlier.   
They left the minister of war lying in the dust. 

The corridor was destroyed, and the walls were riddled with holes from gunshots, but they did not pay much attention to it. They ran down the hall as fast as they could, their rapiers all prepared to strike. 

Then, they finally found the other door to the blocked room, and with it, they found the sources of the shouting and the gunshots. Eight enemies were in the room, two of them firing their pistols at a table that had been thrown over. Without hesitation, Athos and Porthos attacked them with their swords. Brujon killed another man, and Aramis ran over to whoever the men were firing at. 

The men rose from their positions and a stone of relief fell from Brujon’s heart when he saw Captain d’Artagnan and the King, alive and well. 

The battle continued to rage on, and the musketeers were forced into defense and backed away towards the King and d’Artagnan. With a cry of savage rage Porthos thrust his sword into the last standing attacker, who went limp immediately.

For a moment, there was silence, and Brujon only heard the heavy breathing of his friends and the King. 

“You...really...have an excessive amount of luck, my dear friend,” Aramis commented into d’Artagnan’s direction, who replied with a mischievous smile. 

“That never changed,” Porthos said and his eyes scanned the Captain and the King for any harm done.

The King made a step forward, obviously still gathering his thoughts. 

“I...I cannot express...”

“Stop!”

They all froze, and Brujon gulped at the sight he got. One of the attackers, who they had presumed dead, had risen from the ground, and his pistol was shockingly aimed at the young King. D’Artagnan, Athos, Porthos and Aramis were standing behind the King, and if they moved forward, the last man standing could pull the trigger.

“Easy now...,” Aramis tried and raised a placating hand. “Drop the weapon. Or you’ll leave us no choice.”

“I can...I can finish what Fournier has started,” the attacker stuttered.

“Fournier is defeated!” Athos declared. “You won’t see whatever riches he has promised you anyway.”

“He never promised me anything!” the man answered desperately, his voice quivering with anger. “It’s his idea.”

“His idea of chaos?” d’Artagnan interjected. “His idea of distruction?”

“He trusts me!” the man yelled, not paying much attention to what the others had just said. “And it’s just the King. None of you. I only need the King.”

Brujon saw no other choice. Calmly, he raised his hands, and stepped right in front of the man’s pistol. He was in the direct line of fire. But the King wasn’t endangered anymore.

“I’ll shoot you,” the enemy hissed. “I have no inhibitions to do what’s necessary. Out. Of. My. Way!”

Brujon scowled. “You won’t have the time to reload.”

“I’m not asking twice, musketeer! No brave soldier has to die here, all I need is the King. But you need to step aside!”

Brujon shook his head again. “Drop your weapon. You are defeated.”

The man sighed, and granted Brujon a pitiful look. “Oh, you musketeers. Loyal until the very end.” 

Brujon did not close his eyes. He looked into the eye of his executioner, feeling the presence of the others and the King in his back.

_Bang._

The sound of the pistol being fired droned through the room, and Brujon mentally prepared himself for the pain that was to come. 

But he was mistaken. The last attacker lowered his arm, and his head sunk to his chest, where blood was flowing down freely. He eventually whispered something Brujon wasn’t able to understand, and he fell face-first to the ground. 

Behind him, still having a firm grip on the smoking pistol, was none other than Madame d’Artagnan herself. She looked a little beaten, a little bruised, but most importantly, angry. At the sight of the musketeers in front of her, she visibly relaxed, and her eyes found the King’s.

“Your majesty.” Constance was out of breath, and she had a wild look in her eyes. “Your mother demands your presence.”

A moment of silence. D’Artagnan, shocked and still clinging onto the young King, stared at his wife with wide eyes.

And then, he smiled. 

-MMMM-

**Two hours later**

“That was a little too close for my taste.” Porthos declared with a low voice. 

“If I had a livre…,” Aramis responded sarcastically, and friendly elbowed his brother. They were standing near a statue, showing a man on his horse, with his sword raised high. The name was engraved in a flat stone underneath it. Queen Anne had made sure that got the recognition he deserved, even years after his death.

“But we did it, my brothers,” Athos explained, and looked up proudly. “The King is safe.”

“For now,” d’Artagnan sighed. “There will always be men who only care for their own power. Rochefort, Feron, Fournier…there will be more added to the list.” He smiled. “But the musketeers will always be there to take care of it.”

“Well, I hope so,” Porthos grinned. “That’s your bloody job.”

“Our bloody job,” Athos corrected casually and Porthos nodded. 

“Yeah, exactly.”

“To be honest, I wasn’t sure we would get out of this alive,” Aramis confessed and deliberately avoided the gazes of his friends. “But it seems I forgot what kinds of strength I can pull out of the bond we all share.”

For a moment, nobody said a word, but then d’Artagnan smiled, and Porthos chuckled and put an arm around Aramis’ shoulder. Even Athos hinted a proud grin.

“If he was here, what do you think he’d say?” Aramis pointed with his head towards the name engraved on the stone in front of them.

Porthos snorted. “Probably tell us to stop being dramatic and resume our duty.”

“And if we don’t hurry, he’ll have us mucking the stables for a week,” Athos added sarcastically, before he took a deep sip out of a bottle of wine he had stolen from the palace. D’Artagnan and Aramis chuckled. 

“And, most importantly,” d’Artagnan said, and it seemed like he tried to mimic his first captain’s voice. “Trust the man standing next to you. It’s the most valuable gift the musketeers have to offer.”

Aramis grimaced, as if he very lively recalled getting told those words. Athos wordlessly took another sip from his wine, his cold eyes staring at the stone.

“I’d never dare to disappoint him,” he eventually said, his voice barely more than a whisper. D’Artagnan squeezed his shoulder in sympathy. 

“You didn’t. You never did. I’m sure all four of us made him proud today.”

Porthos made a step forward. 

“All for one it is,” he murmured and then they put their hands over each others, in a gesture of brotherhood. They looked up, proudly and supportive.

“And one for all.”

-MMMM-

**The Garrison, in the morning**

Brujon had just finished telling all the assembled musketeers what had happened at the palace when the four Inseperables entered the garrison’s courtyard again, side by side. They all looked tired, and Athos still looked pretty rough with half of his face coated with blood, but they were still standing and alive. Something the four of them probably hadn’t believed themselves as they had prepared to go into a battle that could always have been their final one.

Constance had stayed at the palace for now, caring for the King and his mother, and in order to help restoring the security. 

Brujon now released the musketeers that were gathered around him and made his way over to a bench. Within moments, he saw his Captain, Athos, Porthos and Aramis spotting him and walking over to him. 

“Everything alright with you?” Brujon asked them innocently. He knew that they had met up to fulfill their ritual. Whenever all four of them happened to be in Paris, they would go and pay respect to their mentor and former captain, Tréville.

Porthos nodded. “Yeah, we’re good. The King’s fine. We, by some sort of miracle, survived. Barely any losses.”

Aramis smiled. “Thank God.”

“Hey, Brujon!” d’Artagnan addressed his lieutenant. “What you did back there, walking into the line of fire…the situation was under control. He would’ve never fired, as he knew we would’ve gotten him right after. Why did you still do it?”

Brujon bit his lip. “See, I thought you were unarmed. I did not know about the pistol the King carried with him. And I wanted to save the King, that’s all.”

“I thank you for your courage and bravery,” Aramis said honestly and gently slapped Brujon against his shoulder. “But still, why did you do it?”

“Would you believe me if I say I did it out of love?”

Aramis’ eyes widened, and while Athos and d’Artagnan sighed in exasperation, he heard Porthos snicker in amusement. 

“Don’t you have a woman in your life?” Aramis asked curiously, though his voice was strained by all the yelling he had done earlier.

“My only love is to France.” 

D’Artagnan snorted and made a gesture that said something like ‘told you so’. Athos sighed and approached Brujon. The musketeer felt thrown back in time a couple of years, with his old friends and two of his captains getting ready to give him a lecture.

Soon, Brujon was encircled by the three senior musketeers, the Captain waiting patiently behind them.

“What about the love for a brother?” Porthos asked him, his dark eyes radiating a certain kindness. 

“Like Gaulier,” Athos suggested. “Or Rissé.”

“Or me,” d’Artagnan added, which elicited a smug grin out of Aramis and Porthos.

“I’d give my life for any of you, and you know that!” Brujon snapped, upset about the lack of understanding from the four friends. “But when the time comes, I’ll have to choose France. I’ll have to choose Paris. I’ll have to choose the King.”

“Honorable,” Athos commented dryly.

“Foolish,” Porthos said. D’Artagnan and Aramis shook their heads in confirmation. 

“Risking your life so easily?” D’Artagnan asked again, now using his Captain-voice. “What is France, if not the values of brotherhood, of friendship, and of love and devotion we all hold so dear to our hearts?”

Brujon said nothing; he just stared at the four men, waiting for them to explain themselves. He was boiling with anger.

“Don’t do something like that again, no matter how honorable it may seem,” Athos said dryly, and put the hat back on his hair. “You are part of all of this. And you have the same rights as every other man in this country has as well. But doing nonsense like that? It won’t help you, nor your brothers, your love or the King.”

“You did nothing else when you were young men. Who are you to judge me now?” Brujon replied angrily.

“That was a different time,” Athos explained calmly.

“And a different king,” Aramis added with a dead-panned expression. Brujon had no idea what they were trying to tell him.

“And what about France?” 

Porthos looked at him with a sad expression is his dark eyes. 

“I dedicated my life to France. To the King. To honor.” He huffed. “Well yes, also to glory. It was my choice, and all of us, we swore an oath. But if I could go back again, I would’ve done some things differently. Choose to love, Brujon, before France gets the better of you. Fight for love, whether it’s the one of a woman or the one of a friend. Don’t worry about France.” 

He took a step back, and he looked a lot wiser than Brujon had ever expected him to be. It was Athos who chipped in with a comment from the side. 

“France will take care of itself.” 

Aramis put on a melancholic smile. “It always does.”

**-The End-**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's it. Thank you to everybody who read the whole thing, and to all the support, the kudos and the comments! I really appreciate it. It was a pleasure to write this, I hope you enjoyed it!


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